


Drabbles, Prompts, and Other One-Shots from Tumblr

by meshkol (ashernorton)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (kinda), Accidental Voyeurism, Aliens, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Sex, Angst, Aphrodisiacs, Asphyxiation, Bets, Biting, Breathplay, Butt Plugs, Canon Temporary Character Death, Choking, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Drabbles and Prompts, Exhibitionism, Lingerie, M/M, Magic, Magic as Kink, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Photography, Rope Bondage, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Shibari, Smut, Soulmates, Tentacle Porn, Tentacles, Thirsty Boyfriends, Trauma, a bit non/dub-con ish, bareback, but it's tentacle porn, magic ropes, minimal clothing, sex marathon, slight D/s, stephen is unapologetic, thor watches, tony concurs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-05-25 04:58:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14969597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashernorton/pseuds/meshkol
Summary: An ongoing collection of any/all prompts, drabbles, one-shots, etc posted onmy tumblr.





	1. Who Cares Who's Watching (We're in the Mirror Dimension!)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Drabbles, Prompts, and Other One-Shots from Tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15773667) by [Clover_cherik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clover_cherik/pseuds/Clover_cherik)



> Based off [this tumblr post](http://meshkol.tumblr.com/post/174994078279/random-thought-but-stephen-randomly-opening-the)
> 
> (And sorry if you'd already seen this posting -- for some reason, ao3 decided to post the same work twice, and when I tried deleting one, it deleted both instead. Apologies!)

Tony’s sitting at the desk in his lab, minding his own goddamn business, when his chair is yanked backwards.

He experiences a brief flash of complete terror, wondering who got through the frankly apocalyptic security he has set up here, but then he’s just pissed, because _fuck_ if he’s not going to kill Stephen for this.  Regardless, he allows Stephen to pull him up from his seat and stands up, mouth opening to berate his maybe-kinda-who-the-fuck-knows-probably-boyfriend on proper etiquette when coming into Avengers HQ... _like knocking on the door like a normal human being_.

Instead, his mouth is covered by Stephen’s sinful mouth, said mouth is invaded by Stephen’s sinful tongue, and his trousers are being unbuttoned and pushed down his legs along with his pants by Stephen’s sinful fingers.

Tony pulls away to breathe, gasps “what the fuck?” in a hoarse whisper, and then sags helplessly against his desk, because holy Mary mother of _Jesus_ Stephen’s falling to his knees, lips glowing gold before he takes Tony’s rapidly filling prick into his mouth.

“ _Ooooh_ my God,” Tony chokes, his fingers threading into Stephen’s thick hair just to ground himself.  He hates when Stephen uses magic like this – he gets hard so fast from the tingles and vibrations of Stephen’s mouth and tongue and throat, and it’s pretty much a guarantee that Tony’s going to pop off faster than he’s comfortable with.  After all, he’s used to flings and one-night stands and, well, Pepper, and he had taken every single second of his time figuring out every little tick and trick to each body he took to bed.

Stephen, though, while incredibly enthusiastic of the drawn-out moments, is a sucker for quick moments when they have the time.

Tony swears he’s never had so much sex in his _life_.

His brain short-circuits then, because Stephen’s fingers are digging into Tony’s arse and his nose is pressing against the finely trimmed hairs surrounding Tony’s prick, and who can blame a guy for having tunnel vision during a time like this?  So he gives in, grasping Stephen’s hair more solidly with his left hand and moving his hips deeper into Stephen’s throat.  He knows Stephen can take it – he’s _always_ gagging for it – and moves his other hand to Stephen’s throat, feeling the line of his prick through the skin and cartilage as it pushes in and out.

“Fuck Stephen,” he groans, listening to the wet sounds of Stephen sucking him down, and he’s already way too close and how does Stephen _do_ it?  It’s unbelievable how easy he brings Tony to the edge, considering he’s pushing fifty and is more scar tissue and mechanical organs than blood and bone.

Stephen abruptly pulls off, standing up in one graceful movement that’s only belied by his twitching hands and heaving breaths.  Said hands begin tearing at Tony’s shirt, pulling it over his head and throwing it to the side absently.  Then he says in that low, rumbling drawl, “Turn around and hold yourself open for me.”

Tony shudders and practically trips, his trousers still tangled on his ankles and totally uncoordinated due to his arousal.  Stephen steadies him but insistently helps Tony move into position, all while Tony’s trying to kick off his trousers that are tangled on his shoes.  He barely manages before Stephen pushes him down almost forcefully, face-down into the glass of his desk, and nudges his legs open with one foot.

He hears Stephen unbutton and unzip his own trousers, but he doesn’t hear the fabric fall, and it’s that an intoxicating thought, Stephen fully dressed while Tony’s practically naked except for his shoes and socks.  He moans against the glass, turns his head towards the door of his lab so his nose isn’t squashed, and reaches behind himself to spread his arse cheeks, spurred on by the sound of Stephen pulling himself.  It sounds wet and filthy, and _fuck_ , but Tony wants that prick inside of him, preferably _yesterday_.

“Fuck me, c’mon Stephen, put it in me, go on,” Tony urges, babbling and not giving a shit that it’s happening.  He’s rewarded when that prick presses against his hole, a teasing touch that nearly drives Tony mad, until it’s steadily pushing inside of him, Tony’s body instinctively pulling it in until Stephen’s hips are pressed against Tony arse.

“ _Christ_ ,” Stephen breathes, stilling for a long moment so Tony’s body can grow accustomed to the girth of his prick, and then suddenly Stephen grasps a handful of Tony’s hair and _goes_.

With the frankly indecent amount of anal they have, there’s no discomfort, Tony’s body already so aroused and relaxed that even the wait had been unnecessary.   As Stephen knows Tony’s body like the inside of a brain, he doesn’t even really give Tony a moment to really brace himself, aware that Tony’s more than able to withstand a hard fuck (and is incredibly enthusiastic about it to boot).  He starts a steady push-and-pull, just enough to force Tony to scramble for the edge of the desk so he’s not shoved into the hard edge, and gradually starts going harder, until Tony can feel his entire body jolting at the strength of it.  Every drag of Stephen’s prick against Tony’s prostate is like an electric shock to his nerve endings, and his own prick is positively _aching_ to be touched, swinging heavily between his spread thighs.

His hands slide against the smooth edge of his desk, his damp palms barely able to keep a steady enough grip on it to spare his stomach; he hears their panting breaths, Stephen’s lewd words, the rattle of his sturdy desk shaking due to the force of their fucking.  In a brief moment of insanity, he wonders if he’s fallen asleep and dreaming, because surely his coffee mug and paper files would’ve fallen off by now, but then the thought is gone, too consumed by the fact that he’s close-close- _close_ —

The door opens, and Steve-fucking-Rogers walks into his office, calling out for Tony.

“Shit!” Tony all but shrieks, automatically surging up, but Stephen just pushes him back down, his pace not slowing.  It’s horrifying, because Rogers is here and Tony’s going to _come_ and what in the actual fuck is Stephen even _thinking_?!  “Oh my God, Steven, stop, Christ, _stop_!”

“He can’t see us, Stark,” Stephen rasps, stopping his punishing rhythm for a moment so he can tighten his grip on Tony’s hair.  He forces Tony to look Rogers dead in the face as he continues, “We’re in the mirror dimension and Rogers is blind to us, so shut your insufferable mouth and _take it_.”

At the last two words, he shoves his prick hard inside Tony, causing Tony to arch his back with a sharp cry of utter pleasure.  Stephen thrusts harder, one hand digging into his hip with bruising force and the other making Tony watch Rogers walk up to the desk, call out Tony’s name as he looks around the lab, and scratch his head in confusion (because oh yeah, they were supposed to meet here for a uniform fitting, shit).

And for some awful, depraved reason, the idea that Rogers is standing not three metres away from them as they fuck like animals is exhilarating, and suddenly Tony’s sobbing with arousal, begging Stephen to go harder, fuck him deeper, _fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me-baby- **please**_.

Stephen obliges, and Tony’s going to be sore and bruised and _wasted_ after this, but Rogers unseeingly looks right at where Stephen and Tony are connected and Tony shouts, entire body tightening and convulsing as he comes untouched in thick pulses against his glass desk.  He vaguely feels Stephen shuddering behind him but he’s too consumed by his own orgasm, of the fact that they’re getting off right next to Steve Rogers of all people, of the fact that they’re coming right next to the untouched Boy Wonder.

Stephen pulls out before Tony’s fully lucid, if only to hold off the sensitive discomfort that would occur later, and then pulls Tony towards him.  Stephen sits bonelessly in Tony’s chair and drags Tony down with him, stroking his shaking fingers down Tony’s sweaty back as Tony tiredly manoeuvres himself into a comfortable position, the insides of his thighs pressed against the outside of Stephen’s.

Then he buries his face into his lover’s neck and _laughs_ , because Stephen Strange is a wild, kinky bastard and Tony loves him more than anything but Peter Parker.

Stephen laughs too, and despite the awkwardness of this entire situation, Tony Stark is a very happy, lucky man.


	2. What Works

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony Edward Stark, commonly known as Tony, has never bought into the whole ‘soulmate’ thing.
> 
> It doesn’t change the fact that Tony still has a soulmate though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angsty af and unbeta'd. Infinity War-compliant.

Anthony Edward Stark, commonly known as Tony, has never bought into the whole ‘soulmate’ thing.

Scientifically speaking, he knows that it’s a biological and chemical component that’s tied with another person’s (or people plural) brain structure.  After all, the brain is a computer, and biology in and of itself is wild sometimes.  Not to mention that Tony’s pretty sure that there’s probably some magic shit involved, but he’s never taken the time to actually research it because he hasn’t any interest in the subject.

He’s seen soulmates together – his parents included – that have crap relationships, because biologically and chemically perfect or not, people are still people, shaped by personal triumphs and traumas and mundane life experiences.  It takes work to have a healthy relationship, even with a bond, and that’s not really something Tony’s ever been interested in.  He’s been perfectly content in his life with one-night-stands and reoccurring flings, and while he had tried with Pepper (he still swears she’s the love of his life), the long-term relationship thing hadn’t worked out.  He’s just not cut out for it.

Tony’s incapable of shelving Iron Man, and he’s too damaged and traumatised to really be fully _there_ in a relationship.  He’s grown used to the fact that he’s probably blown it with the only person who could possibly truly love him, and in a way that’s a good thing.  At least that way he’s not going to leave a significant other and two-point-three children without a husband and father, because if he’s honest, Tony’s probably going to go out in a fucking blaze of fire and pain considering his lifestyle.

It doesn’t change the fact that Tony still has a soulmate though.

He ignores the Other as much as he can, and for the most part it’s fine.  Whoever they are, they’re pretty low-impact – he remembers the feeling of his soulmate being born when he was four (like he had been a ghost that had suddenly been brought back to life, every atom in his body lighting up like a galaxy), and remembers feeling bursts of pain and fear occasionally during his formative years, but ultimately the Other has been pretty mellow, both physically and mentally as far as Tony can tell.

Well, until about two years ago, that is.  He had been working on his nanotech suit in his lab when suddenly Tony had felt blinding pain in every bone and muscle of his body, collapsing onto the floor in a dead faint.  When he’d come to, it had been two days later, and despite the lack of pain in his body (and considering the agony before he’d passed out, he figures he can attribute that to morphine), he had felt such an unimaginable grief and anger that it had kept Tony in bed for another week.

It was the first time in forty-four years that the Other had been distracting.  For months, the desperation and depression and pain (all over his body, and then finally just in his hands) had been constant, until it had abruptly switched into pure awe and wonder about seven months after the Other had...gone through whatever they had gone through.

The awe and wonder hasn’t gone away – sometimes there are sudden bursts of it, just as poignant and distracting as that first time – and the pain in Tony’s hands is a tingle that he easily works around, though the sensations are weakened in a bond so the Other is likely suffering much more physically than Tony is – but mercifully the Other has been fairly quiet since that period of depression had lifted.

Tony can’t help but feel a bit...sorry for the Other.  Not just for the last two crazy years of the Other’s life, but also because they have to deal with Tony and his shenanigans.  Tony gets pummelled and thrown off buildings on the regular, and he’s been tortured a few times since Afghanistan, and that’s not even bringing in the countless years of substance abuse, depression, PTSD, anxiety attacks—well, Tony comes with a lot of issues, and God knows the Other has felt a muted version of all of it over the past few decades.

Poor sod probably hates Tony, even if the Other doesn’t know who he is.

Tony puts down his tablet and rubs his thumb across the black initials on his left wrist.  _S.S._

Tony’s always been cognisant of the fact that if he meets his soulmate, his biology is going to take over his brain and he’ll be enslaved to another human being once he touches them.  Because of that, Tony doesn’t touch people skin-to-skin without knowing their names (and won’t touch someone with the initials _S.S._ period), doesn’t like being handed things (the possibility that he’ll touch his soulmate before learning their name is too high, since Tony does a lot of schmoozing around the world), _doesn’t like taking chances with his freedom_.

He doesn’t think he’ll survive another Pepper.  He loves her to this day, so very much, and while they’re still close friends and it had been for her own mental stability, it had nearly killed him to let her go in that way.  If he opens up to another person and he’s forced to let them go for their own safety and their mutual happiness, he knows that he’ll actually lose it.

He can’t lose another person that he loves.  He _can’t_.

He’s probably not going to be able to stop it though.  Not with the life he lives, as Iron Man, and isn’t that just a shit situation.  Pepper will always be somewhat of a target, because of her being the CEO of Stark Industries as well as being close to Tony ( _bait-bait-bait_ ).  Happy is paranoid and trigger-happy (pun somewhat intended) and goes rushing into trouble to protect Pepper, so he’s always going to be in danger as well.  Rhodey and Peter...fuck, those two are going to be the death of Tony without a doubt.  Rhodey’s an Avenger and a fucking Air Force colonel, and Peter’s constantly getting into trouble in the city, though he’ll be an Avenger himself once he’s older and ready for it.  Bruce is god-knows-where, though Tony can’t see the green machine dying before Tony does to be honest; Tony’s fairly certain that the Hulk will live forever just to spite Bruce.

Tony’ll be surrounded by death and pain until the day he kicks it, and that’s just the fact of it.  The best he can do is survive until then and pray to whatever mythical gods are out there that he can keep the collateral damage relatively low.

Easier said than done.

Anyway, Tony’s never bought into the soulmate thing.  He refuses to accept biological slavery, genuinely doesn’t believe that he’s capable of a truly healthy relationship, and therefore it’s easier to just disregard the whole thing as something that belongs in faerie tales.

And then he meets Stephen Strange.

—

Tony knows what Stephen is the second he steps out of that portal in Central Park.

It’s hard to explain, because his _body_ doesn’t recognise him as much as his brain itself, but a hint of awareness in the back of his head has sparked to life at the arrival of the wizard-sorcerer-whatever; when he introduces himself as Doctor Stephen Strange, Tony realises that he’s _so_ screwed, both because the initials match and also because there’s a severe graveness in Stephen’s expression that echoes the severe graveness he can feel in his mind.

Tony looks at Strange’s hands, sees the scars, and just _knows_.

Judging by the lingering look at Tony’s reactor and the brief flash of phantom pain that crosses his face, Stephen is just as aware as Tony is.

They’re careful not to touch each other, to Tony’s relief.  He’s always imagined that the Other would feel the chemical bond and rush to touch, to cement the connection to the _billionaire genius Anthony Stark_ , but Strange has an air of weariness about him, eyeing Tony critically.  It’s almost...comforting, really, knowing that the sorcerer is on the same page as him regarding their bond.  Of course, they disagree on the Time Stone and what to do with it, and that fucking cloak is cheeky, but neither one of them makes the move to verify what their brains are telling them.

Tony hates him for a few minutes, and then hates himself because _fuck_ Stephen Strange is a salty bastard and Tony’s always felt attraction to the salty ones.  As much as he wants to tear that doom necklace off his neck, bury it in the centre of the Earth, and then call Strange a dumbarse, their back and forth is exasperating and yet entertaining.  Combined with the fact that physically-speaking Strange is absolutely Tony’s type, Tony wants to launch himself into the atmosphere and scream at the injustice of it all.

Of course, they don’t really get the chance, because Manhattan is invaded by two overpowered aliens insistent on taking the stone, and Tony finds himself on a goddamn spaceship trying to rescue both the stone itself and the soulmate he wishes didn’t exist.

—

It’s an accident, touching him.

Strange falls after his weird, green meditation thing, and Tony instinctively catches him.  It would’ve been fine had Tony’s helmet been on – instead, Stephen falls forward and Tony curls inward, Strange’s slightly damp temple pressed against Tony’s throat in what might look like an embrace.

They inhale in unison, both at the feeling of rushing, hot fire running through their veins as well as the stinging pain from their wrists.  Tony doesn’t have to look at the initials to know that the two letters are transitioning to gold, just like he doesn’t have to look at his own or Strange’s skin to see the red lines tracing every vein in their bodies.

Neither one of them give any other indication that something’s changed, but Tony hears Peter breathe out “Wow, Mr Stark... _wow_ ” and Tony realises that any possibility of hiding it has disappeared.

Tony pulls away, sees the bond – _his_ bond – come to life with his own eyes for the first time with an awed and terrified roll in his stomach, and then focusses on Strange.  Strange doesn’t look awed or terrified himself, almost resigned in a way, but there’s an underlying distress in his glasz eyes that Tony can feel echo in his mind.

Tony doesn’t understand why until he hears Strange say with heavy foreboding, “Only one.”

—

When Strange dies, Tony feels it in every atom in his body.

It shudders through him like a wave of black, toxic sludge, seeping from his pores and choking him in his lungs, and Tony’s whole world goes blindingly white from the agony that races through his pores.  He’s heard stories of soulmates dying, about the inconsolable grief and anguish and pain, but he’d never thought he’d experience it first-hand.  It’s completely consuming, enough to bring tears to his eyes and bring him to his knees, the silence of the broken planet around them devastating.

And then it gets worse, because _Peter_.

—

Tony’s not sure how he survives the devastation of Titan.

The destruction of the bond is physically worse – the vivid red and purple lines that spider over his skin, the near-constant vomiting and muscle cramps, the fever and shakes and copious sweating, the lethargy and chemical grief that fogs his mind – but emotionally, Tony grieves for Peter most of all.  He had barely known Str— _Stephen_ , but Peter’s always been the closest thing to a son Tony ever had.  Tony _loves_ that kid and his stupid, endearing pop culture references, his unfailing optimism, his love of tinkering with Tony in the lab.  Losing Stephen physically destroys him, but losing Peter destroys him emotionally and mentally, and combined with the sickness he feels, the anguish nearly kills him.

Tony thinks the bloodthirsty need for revenge is the reason he goes on, and it’s not just for Thanos: he hates Quill for fucking up the plan when they were _so close_ to getting the gauntlet off, and honestly, despite being his soulmate, Tony hates Stephen too for giving Thanos the Time Stone.  Tony would’ve happily given his life to have Peter safe and happy in Queens with his aunt and friends and crime-fighting escapades and Tony just _hates_.

He _hates_.

—

He doesn’t comprehend the gravity of Stephen’s choice until he discovers the secret of interdimensional travel.

It’s then he realises the frankly absurd amount of trust Stephen has placed in him, despite barely knowing him outside of the tabloids, because out of 14,000,605 possibilities, only one had meant an acceptable win, which meant that Stephen had trusted Tony to make every right decision in every single moment over the past seven months in order to win.

He had put his faith in Tony, even if Tony was notorious for fucking things up, and like hell Tony’s going to spit on that sacrifice.  Tony just hopes that Stephen’s trust is warranted, that Tony hasn’t _already_ fucked things up, because even the slightest deviation from the plan means that Tony will fail.  He wishes that Stephen had outlined the plan or magicked a vision into Tony’s brain that showed him the way forward or _some_ sort of goddamned clue, but Tony understands why he didn’t.  It hadn’t even been five minutes since Thanos had disappeared before everyone was dying, and there just hadn’t been enough time.

Tony still abhors that he’s essentially flying blind, with no way of knowing if he’s even following the parameters of the one future they succeed with utmost precision.

He’s terrified.

—

He finds Peter halfway between transiting to his flat in Queens from Brooklyn.

The inboard sensors in the nanotech locked onto Peter the second he had rematerialised, since Tony had built that suit and had embedded it with tracking devices ( _always-worried-always-present-always-watching_ ); he’d moved from the beaten and dying Thanos instantly, not willing to stay behind for clean-up (there are other Avengers for that) because his _son_ is back and he won’t waste a second to see him again.  There’s a blur of red and blue, shining brightly in the mid-afternoon son, and the suit hones in on it instantly.  The suit, the Spider-Man suit, is flying through the streets and swinging around buildings, on a fast-moving beeline to Brooklyn, but it diverts immediately towards Tony’s Iron Man suit with a single-minded focus.  The gauntlet on Tony’s arm, over the armour, is heavy and unyielding, covering the propulsion system in Tony’s left hand and making flight treacherous but he doesn’t care; it’s melded to his arm anyway and he’ll need to get it amputated and a new arm developed, so there’s no point in taking it off.  It’s probably the only thing keeping him from bleeding out, the flesh and bone and muscle crushed and impacted by the power Tony’d channelled through it.

They collide in mid-air, and they’re falling-falling-falling, and Tony can’t stop _crying_ – violent, agonising sobs that are just as much from relief that Peter’s alive as they are from pain and the trauma of the past year.  Everything is over-bright and deafening, and he doesn’t even register that they’ve hit the ground safely because he’s squeezing Peter with as much strength as he can manage in his aching, exhausted body.

It goes on and on, Peter’s tech snapping back from his face, and they’re both sobbing, attracting a crowd in the middle of a devastated Brooklyn, despite the screams and weeping he can hear from reunited friends and family in the borough.  He doesn’t care, because he’s done it, and Peter’s safe, and he can _feel_ Stephen in the bond, whole and alive and radiating pure pride and joy into their connection.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” Tony weeps, and tries to hold himself together just a little bit longer, _just a little bit longer_.

—

When Tony sees Stephen for the first time since the end, he _rages_.

He gets why Stephen did it, why he had banked the entire future of the universe on Tony’s weary and beaten and forever slumped shoulders, he _does_ , but that doesn’t erase the suffering, the uncertainty, the fear, the pain.  It doesn’t take away the legitimate experiences he’s had to push through: grieving for his son, his precious Peter, mind shattering to pieces in its wake; grieving for his makeshift family, his friends, for the world he couldn’t save until they had already been taken away ruthlessly from their own lives; grieving for _Stephen_ , body literally tearing itself apart inside and his shattered mind fracturing more than the human spirit can survive.

Tony is _broken_.  He doesn’t remember a life without anguish and sacrifice, doesn’t remember what it feels like to be happy or content, doesn’t remember how bright and promising the future could be with the right attitude and confidence.  He is _broken_ , irreparably and totally, and can’t remember what it feels like to be alive.

 _I’m sorry_ , Stephen says softly, as shaking hands wrap around Tony’s torso, even as Tony beats at his chest with weak fists, furious and splintered and desperate to make Stephen feel even a portion of the pain he’s suffered in his heart.

 _I’m sorry_ , Stephen says softly, as Tony grips handfuls of Stephen’s worn hoodie and weeps, soaking it with his tears, mourning for the naïve innocence and optimism he’s lost since he was tortured in a cave and watched a friend die.

 _I’m sorry_ , Stephen says softly, as he runs his fingers through Tony’s greying hair, Tony’s head buried in the stubble-rough skin of Stephen’s neck, breathing and smelling in the scent of the equally traumatised man pressed against him.

 _I’m sorry_ , Stephen says softly, as Tony’s mouth desperately connects to Stephen’s own, tongues dancing and hands roaming perspiring bodies, stealing his breath and making his broken heart beat again despite all conceivable odds.

 _I’m sorry_ , Stephen says softly, as Tony presses his fingers into Stephen’s naked, sharp, scarred body, breaths loud and heart racing, relishing the warmth of him against Tony’s skin and watching as Stephen’s frame arches and shudders with life.

 _I’m sorry_ , Stephen says softly, as Tony lowers himself onto Stephen, fingernails digging into Tony’s tense thighs, embracing the burn of Stephen’s magnificent, lube-covered prick and the heat of those lips against his chest.

And when Tony comes, so intensely that his muscles spasm violently and tears run down his face, and when Stephen whispers against his damp hair, _I’ve loved you for fourteen million lifetimes and I will love you for one more, and I will always be sorry Anthony Stark_ , Tony feels like he can breathe again.

—

It’s not perfect.

There is a lot of baggage between them, and a lot of missed moments.  They live in separate cities and have separate lives and have separate responsibilities; they don’t go out to dinner or spend nights talking about their day, nor do they sign prenups or go on romantic vacations.  Hell, more and more frequently they’re not even on the same planet or dimension.  They’re so fundamentally fragmented inside – they’ve lived and suffered through too much, and they’ve been alone for far too long, and their obligations are so different, and it was never going to be a fairy-tale romance that would be penned down by the writers of history.  After forty-plus years of independence, of tragedy, of war, they can’t mesh their lives together in that vital way that most well-adjusted people can.

But when they steal those rare and precious moments, shirking responsibilities and stiff-arming their makeshift families, it’s simple, _natural_ , every moment profound and beautiful.  They’re too old and too damaged to push for anything more, and they have their own lives to live: Tony’s tied to his duties as Iron Man and the face of the New Avengers, saving the people of Earth from the physical, whereas Stephen’s tied to his duties as the Sorcerer Supreme, saving the people of Earth from the mystical.

Tony Stark may be enslaved to another human being, but Stephen’s _his_ , and he’s _Stephen’s_.  Perhaps it’s not perfect, and perhaps it’s not ideal, but at the end of the day, it’s _theirs_ , and it _works_.

It _works_.


	3. A Bound Prize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off [this tumblr post](http://meshkol.tumblr.com/post/175858724794/sometimes-in-between-fluffy-ideas-i-start-to). Unbeta'd as per usual.

Stephen eyes his prize with a sharp, critical gaze.

Tony’s gorgeous on the average day: golden brown skin etched with scars and stretched over solid, sturdy, hard-earnt musculature; dark brown hair with hints of gold and silver all over his cut body, from the thick locks on his head to the sparse ones on the tops of his feet; the bluish-purple veins that pop out on his arms, neck, groin, and hands, stark lines that emphasise his angles; the honey-brown eyes surrounded by lush eyelashes and age; the wide stretch of that thin, flat mouth as it curves into a grin or a frown, tongue flicking in speech against the roof of his mouth or those straight, white teeth...yes, Tony Stark is fucking gorgeous indeed.

But Stephen likes him as is even more: arms stretched out wide, as if preparing to make a snow angel, his fingers curled into his palms loosely; his legs stretched wide too, but his knees bent so both gastrocnemius muscles are pressed against their respective hamstrings; his entire body tightly encased in magical ropes, the red, shimmering tendrils of magic that wrap around his body utterly magnificent against the shade of his skin (golden, flushed with arousal and the pressure of the bondage); his strong body upright and suspended as if in mid-air, unable to move even the slightest centimetre, his hard, leaking prick jutting out proudly from his body in between a tight circle of rope around his erection and heavy balls.  Every line against that skin is a work of art – sharp diamonds, curving circles, intricate figure-eights, flat lines – but Stephen still can’t help but frown, because something’s missing that he can’t quite suss out.

Tony is panting, eyes hidden by a black silk piece of fabric that’s been wrapped around his head and tied, the loose ends at the back hanging down to tickle his back, but he doesn’t speak, even just to ask what’s taking Stephen so long after finishing his work.  He knows better, after all, because Stephen will sit down and read a book for an hour in punishment if Tony speaks before being spoken to.  Besides, he’s in a black leather collar, which is linked by a strong silver chain to the ties in the back, forcing his head backwards so the collar bites into his corded neck.

_Magic is a beautiful thing_ , Stephen thinks.  The strain on Tony’s joints and bones is very low, and the cut of blood flow is quite minimal outside of the actual shibari (which isn’t tight enough to cut off circulation, but just enough for Tony to feel the restraints and keep him from moving his legs and head) considering that magic is pillowing his body in mid-air.  If Stephen had done this the old-fashioned way, he wouldn’t be able to extend this for too long, because Tony’s arms alone would’ve had to hold every bit of body weight from the ceiling.  Considering that they’ve been playing for over two hours now (and Tony’s been tied up in various ways the entire time), the strain would’ve been too much, especially at Tony’s age.

Stephen walks around his prize, clicking his tongue against his teeth.  His eyes dart around Tony’s exposed, bound body, taking in everything – the lines and circles and angles of the glowing red ropes, the nipple clamps that are linked together by a delicate silver chain, the black leather collar around his neck, the vibrating black plug that Stephen can see in between his arse – so he can piece together what’s missing.

“Ah,” he finally murmurs, and pushes his hands into a few signs, letting Tony’s body gently tilt forward.  It allows Tony’s body to lay flat on a pillow of air, taut stomach facing the floor, and the backwards angle of his head allows Stephen to advance on his prize, coaxing that mouth open with a shaking thumb.  “This is what you’re missing,” Stephen rumbles, guiding his prick between Tony’s lips, eyes fluttering as Tony immediately starts tonguing and sucking enthusiastically, wet from pooled saliva that drips to the floor with quiet splatters.

Stephen lets him work for a long moment, standing utterly still and fighting back the urge to groan, before he slowly begins edging backwards, watching as Tony tries to reach him, face going red as the collar cuts off his blood and air supply.  Tony gives up and lets out a weak, wordless complaint, body shivering and prick dripping, and Stephen’s fucking _aching_ , seeing his partner like this, completely at Stephen’s mercy and yearning for release.

Not that Stephen’s far behind.  It’s been hours, and desperate himself, Stephen edges forward once again.  This time, however, he buries his fingers in Tony’s short, greying hair and begins shallowly thrusting, ears buzzing and eyes tightly shut at the feeling of that hot mouth sucking him down his throat.  As Stephen picks up speed and begins pushing harder, Tony simply gives in, his throat opening and making the most _lewd_ sounds as he chokes and drools around Stephen’s prick; at the feeling of Tony’s surrender, Stephen finally loses his cool, and knowing his gorgeous little pet can take it, he pistons his hips frantically, barely allowing his prick to leave Tony’s mouth and his balls impacting Tony’s chin.  Despite the fact that he’s on the edge, oh so desperate, he still keeps his ears open for a snap (Tony’s non-verbal safeword) and his eyes open so Stephen can see if Tony loses consciousness, but Tony’s just _accepting_ it, sweat coating his body and tears soaking into the blindfold and his wet face burgundy from oxygen deprivation and the force of Stephen’s thrusts.

His entire body tenses up, preparing for release, and he pulls out, hands already weaving signs as Tony coughs and gasps for air, and then Tony’s sobbing and outright _wailing_ , because Stephen’s magic heightens the vibrations in the plug and five ropes extend from Stephen’s fingertips to attach to Tony’s prick.  Stephen jerks them both off, Tony with rough and slightly painful tugs of tingling magic ropes and Stephen with his hand, balls tightening against his body, and as he reaches that edge, staring at Tony’s drooling mouth and red cheeks, he whispers breathlessly, “Come for me, pet.”

Tony obeys in a single heartbeat, entire body tightening up to the point where his skin is whitened by unyielding ropes and a high-pitched, hoarse moan tearing its way out of his battered throat.  Stephen’s own orgasm hits him a split-second later, milky spurts of come coating Tony’s face and blindfold, legs weak and knees shaking as he paints that skin with his seed, marking his prize as _his_ , only _his_ , _mine-mine-mine_.

Because Tony belongs to Stephen, just as much as Stephen belongs to Tony, and as he lets his shaking hands smear his come into Tony’s skin, pressing his ownership into his cells, he whispers reverently, “Fuck, you’re perfect for me.”

And Tony smiles, skin glowing from orgasm and satisfaction and the vermilion radiance of his bondage.


	4. What's Modesty?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony likes buying Stephen pretty things, and Stephen likes those pretty things.
> 
> The rest of the Avengers think Bucky's cracked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So [this prompt](http://detafo.tumblr.com/post/175899142610/meshkol-ssironstrange-meshkol) was thrown in my face by my lovely, evil wife [moki](https://ssironstrange.tumblr.com/). I hope your pleased with yourself. <3 The fabulous art was made by [clobeast](http://clobeast.tumblr.com/post/175898008977/ssironstrange-ssironstrange-ironstrange#note-container), who is an absolute treasure.
> 
> Beta'd by [Pastry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forfitzsimmons/pseuds/forfitzsimmons).

“You bought me what?” Stephen asks, voice flat and face impassive.

Tony grins, shoots him a ridiculous eyebrow wiggle, and brandishes the very-pink- _things_ in Stephen’s direction.  “They’ll totally show off those long, delicious legs of yours, babe,” he answers, almost vibrating with amusement, but Stephen can most definitely see the glitter of heat in those big, brown eyes of his.

Tony’s always been rather open about the things he likes to see Stephen in, and to be frank, Stephen doesn’t really mind the...attention to his clothing choices.  Said clothing never leaves the bedroom – he can’t imagine how Wong would react if he saw the white leather corset Tony bought for him and knows he would never live it down – and besides, after all of the things Tony’s dressed him up in, the tiny scrap of pink fabric is practically modest.

Tony had broached the subject early in their relationship over coffee and toast when they had been lounging, of Stephen wearing ‘pretty things’, and Stephen had let the poor man babble himself into a frenzy with internal laughter until he had grown somewhat annoyed with the _this-doesn’t-mean-I-wish-you-were-a-woman_ , _I-know-it’s-fucked-up-and-I’m-sorry-forget-I-said-anything_ , and so on.  He had simply rolled his eyes, gotten up, pulled out his tiny, black lace knickers with attached stockings from his cupboard, and put them on while eyeing his partner heatedly.

Really, Tony should’ve known better – it’s a God-given fact of life that Stephen’s a kinky bastard, something that Anthony Stark is _intimately_ familiar with, and he enjoys the feeling of silk and satin and lace against his sensitive skin anyway.

Idiot.

Still, the current fabric in question is _pink_ , and even outside of that horrid colour, is that _writing_ on—

“Yep,” Tony says with a grin, startling Stephen because had he said that out loud?  Tony just uses both hands to stretch out the shimmery pink fabric, instead of waving it like a goddamn handkerchief, and Stephen’s eyebrows raise in a mixture of surprise and absolute _hilarity_.

“I thought ‘WITCH’ was more appropriate, considering that you went to Nepali Hogwarts, so I Sharpied the ‘B’ out of ‘BITCH’ – though, for the record, you’re absolutely a bitch, and I love you _so much_ – and rectified that little issue.  It’s awesome this way, because now it’s like you’re claiming _both_.”

“You mean _you’re_ claiming both,” Stephen quips, rolling his eyes but nevertheless snagging the shorts so he can try them on.  Tony just laughs, big booming sounds that always make Stephen’s heart flutter at the pure _joy_ he radiates.  Stephen pulls them over his hips and wiggles them into place, walking slowly towards the full-length mirror in the walk-in wardrobe so he can eye himself critically.

They’re short as hell, barely covering his body, and the little slits in the sides means that there’s barely four centimetres of fabric holding them together.  They’re satiny though, Stephen’s absolute favourite feeling, and it feels heavenly against his skin, like a cool caress.  He glances at the bulge of his prick ( _hardening already, fuck_ ) that is pulled to the left, and knows that his prick will peek out of the bottom when he’s fully erect.  He feels his entire body shudder at the idea of sleeping next to his partner with his prick all but hanging out lewdly as he dreams of Tony’s hands on his feverish skin, and with that thought in mind, he slowly turns around to face Tony.

There’s no hiding his burgeoning erection, and he gazes at Tony’s heated eyes for a long moment before he stretches his body to its full length, twisting his torso in a carefully orchestrated pose so he can blatantly check out his own arse in the mirror.  From his peripheral, he can see Tony swallow thickly, and he decides a show is in order, palming his body languidly from the top of his head to the swell of his arse, visible to Tony in the mirror.  “Hmm,” Stephen hums, the sound a deep rumble in his chest, “despite the frankly atrocious colour, I suppose I can get behind this.”

“Or I could get behind _you_ ,” Tony rasps, eyes burning into Stephen’s body through the reflection.

Stephen’s full lips curve into a mischievous, predatory smirk and replies in a purr, “Promises, promises, _Anthony_.”

Tony pounces at the challenge, and Stephen barely has the time to turn around before he’s slammed against the mirror, their lips crashing together with a click of teeth.  Stephen just gasps at the onslaught, tilting his head downwards to lessen the strain on his neck, and digs his shaking fingers into the thick hair on Tony’s head.  Tony himself begins dragging his fingers and palms down Stephen’s skin, groaning once he feels the satin fabric against his hands, and then cups the back of Stephen’s thighs, _pushing_ him up.

The height difference, considerable when simply standing, is absurd now, but Stephen doesn’t give a flying fuck, shuddering at the strength of that body against him and the press of Tony’s lips against already mottled skin.  He’s a goner when Tony manhandles him around like this, and his prick is already half-hard despite the fact that he’s still sloppy with lube and come from their enthusiastic round half an hour ago (Stephen likes being sloppy).  The hard press of their bodies against each other makes it impossible for Stephen to check if Tony’s getting hard as well, but it doesn’t matter either way, because while getting older is a bitch in regards to refractory periods, Stephen’s also the goddamn Sorcerer Supreme with a _fucking PhD_ , and like hell he’s going to let something like biology get in the way of another good fucking.

So he pulls his hands away from Tony’s hair to wrap his arms around Tony’s neck and wiggles until Tony growls, pulling them both away from the abused mirror and towards the rumpled bed.  He holds Stephen steady as he walks, displaying that delicious strength, but his arms are shaking by the time he all but _throws_ Stephen onto the bed, his eyes like burning coal as he stares down at Stephen’s splayed body.

Stephen gives Tony a moment to eye him, completely unconcerned with how aroused and wanton he must look against Tony’s dark charcoal sheets, and then his prick (that _is_ peeking out of the shorts now, and _fuck_ he’s a slag for Tony Stark and satin against his prick) decides that it’s long enough.  He sits up, stretches with his arms above his head to display his body even more prominently, and then brings his hands to Tony’s scarred, delectably toned chest, digging his fingernails into those muscles.  He shudders with pleasure when Tony moans, loud and unashamed, simply allowing Stephen to drag his fingernails down across the smooth, hairless skin of his chest and cut abdominal muscles, leaving pink lines in his wake.

And then he pulls down Tony’s loose pyjamas and sucks him down.

Tony digs his own fingers into Stephen’s bare shoulders with a groan, hard enough to leave bruises (and God Stephen loves those bruises), and simply lets Stephen work.  The slowly hardening prick in his mouth is warm and salty and tastes faintly of the soap from his fast shower (Tony _doesn’t_ like being sloppy), but as much as he likes the idea of suckling his partner for as long as it takes to get him fully hard, he also really wants to stuff himself full, preferably _ten minutes ago_.  For that reason alone, as Stephen sucks and licks and swallows and hums, one hand presses into Tony’s arse to get him closer-closer-closer, whereas the other is reaching out toward the end table for his Sling Ring.

He grasps it after a moment of blind searching, and he hears Tony rasp around another groan, “What’re you doing, babe?”

Stephen pulls away with a lewd _pop_ , smacks his lips to savour the taste of Tony’s skin, and puts on the ring as he replies, “You know what I’m doing, so get on the bed, you insufferable creature.”

Tony laughs breathlessly as he obeys, tearing off Stephen’s shorts carelessly and falling onto his back with a bounce.  He watches Stephen with dancing eyes as Stephen straddles Tony’s thighs in a graceful movement, those dark orbs intent and awed at Stephen’s fluid manoeuvring, completely consumed and focussed only on the long, lean line of Stephen’s pale body.  His hands wander Stephen’s skin absently, distracted while he watches Stephen makes a few signs with his scarred hands before they turn a glowing reddish-orange.  Stephen’s hands tingle and vibrate with the magic (a lovely little thing he’s learnt in a truly _imaginative_ book in the Kamar-Taj library) and he doesn’t hesitate to start returning the favour.

Stephen’s fingers massage Tony’s scalp, the spell stimulating blood flow and nerve endings, with a steady rhythm, but he doesn’t linger long.  He steadily but quickly moves lower, hitting every erogenous zone Tony has to offer: a pressing touch into Tony’s temples, a caress of eyelids and lips, all ten fingers dragging down Tony’s neck, a massage of his earlobes and the pressure point behind his ear, a light squeeze around his neck, a drag of his fingernails along those defined collar bones, a tickling trail down his scarred sternum, a press and pinch of those flat nipples, the backs of his fingers along Tony’s ribs to his sharp hip bones, his thumbs massaging the pressure points of his hips, his palms dragging up the sharp cuts of abdominal muscles, a single finger circling his navel, a firm squeeze on Tony’s waist, raking his fingernails down that corded muscle of his hips and thighs, caressing the soft skin behind his knees, and finally trailing his way up to Tony’s neglected centre.

Tony’s panting now, covered with glistening perspiration that glows scarlet from Stephen’s magic, and Stephen’s pleased to see that Tony’s prick is rock hard and twitching against his hip.  The pool of precome is just as highlighted by the magic, especially when Stephen runs his fingertips through the clear liquid in circular motions before trailing lower to gently pull at Tony’s balls.  His other hand’s fingers trace the crown of Tony’s prick before his hand wraps around the girth of him, his thumb massaging the frenulum for a long moment.  Then he moves further back to Tony’s perineum, pressing in and massaging.  The noises coming out of Tony’s throat are loud and raw, his face flushed and eyes tightly shut as Stephen fondles Tony’s gorgeous body with his hands and magic.  Tony’s own hands, now resting on Stephen’s hips and arse, squeeze helplessly as Stephen stimulates his prostate from the outside, the anatomy second-nature to him despite his neurological speciality; from the pressure of Tony’s grip, Stephen will surely have even more bruises to display Tony’s passion.

That thought makes him shiver, which is only heightened by the fact that Tony finally snaps, pushing himself up and claiming Stephen’s lips in a searing, biting kiss, tongues winding and teeth biting with desperate need.  Tony’s fingers tighten even harder, and then Tony’s lifting him with brute strength alone, Stephen’s hands disconnecting from the jostle so he can steady himself on Tony’s shoulders.  He doesn’t mind though, because with one last toe-curling kiss, he stretches his long, pale torso towards the end table once again, carelessly tossing the Sling Ring onto the wood (which slides to the floor at the force Stephen uses) and grabbing the half-empty bottle of lube in its place.  He drops it four fucking times, not as much from his always-shaking hands but from Tony himself; it’s hard to function properly when one’s partner is a vocal and demanding Tony Stark, after all.  Tony grinds his prick into the crease of Stephen’s wet arse, the movement rubbing against Stephen’s own perineum and balls, and hisses filthily through clenched teeth, “Fuck, need to be in you, Stephen, _baby_ , c’mon.”

Stephen almost loses his balance when he straightens himself up, only Tony’s hands on his hips keeping him steady, and frantically pumps lube into a palm, _needing_ that prick inside of him so badly it’s physically painful.  He pushes himself onto his knees and reaches behind himself to sightlessly coat Tony’s prick, giving it a few strokes, and then guides it to his hole, sinking down in a solid drop of blessed gravity.

They both moan, low and in complete harmony, and Stephen doesn’t care that his hands are still wet with lube – he grasps a handful of Tony’s hair with his right hand and bodily pulls Tony to his neck, commanding breathlessly, “Bite me, Tony, mark me up, show me who I belong to.”  He lifts himself up only to slam back down, minutely changing his position for a better angle, and Tony lets out the most primal sound against his neck, teeth sinking into the flesh of Stephen’s exposed neck and _sucking_.  Stephen’s other hand wraps around Tony’s neck so he can dig his fingers into the strong, hard muscles of Tony’s back, pushing him close while Stephen sets a steady, punishing rhythm with his thighs and hips.

“God, Tony, how you _feel_ in me, splitting me open as I fuck myself on your cock,” Stephen breathes, eyes rolling into the back of his head and his muscles burning with exertion.  He feels Tony shudder violently, those hands clenching even tighter on his hips as he snaps his hips up to meet Stephen’s drops.  Stephen keens at a particularly delicious drag of Tony’s prick against his prostate, and stiffens up rather than continuously shifting, trying to replicate that angle because _shit_ it’s good.  Tony pulls his head away from the most-likely livid love bite to gasp for air and Stephen yanks his head to the other side, feeling Tony’s helpless groan against his skin as he gives into Stephen’s wordless demand, biting and sucking and tonguing Stephen’s throat.

“Come on, Tony,” Stephen manages through the throbbing ache in his balls and prick, fingernails of his left hand digging into Tony’s damp skin and the smell of sex and sweat heady in his nose.  “Give it to me,” he forces out through his teeth, every millimetre of his body delirious with the need to come, the prostate stimulation making it almost full-body rather than just his prick and bollocks.  He’s going to _come_ like this, untouched and desperate, covered in bites and bruises and come like a depraved slut for Tony’s prick.  “Fuck me like you mean it,” he gasps in between groans, frantically rolling and rotating his hips because he needs to _feel it_ , and Tony’s practically sobbing against his skin, forcing Stephen down like a goddamn animal in rut.  He rambles on in a hoarse growl, “Get me _wet_ baby...wanna feel your come filling me up, so much of it that it’s dripping down my thighs, soaking into my skin and making me _reek_ of you, fuck, baby, _fuck_ me— _God_ —wanna feel you for days, remember how it feels to have you own me every time I sit down, Tony, _please_ —”

One of Tony’s hands tears itself away from Stephen’s aching hips and reaches between them, and it only takes one pull of his prick before Stephen’s entire body goes taut.  He slams down one final time as his back arches, his orgasm hitting him like a fucking _planet_ , and his balls are _throbbing_ with the force of his release.  Two pulses, body shuddering wildly, pulling Tony’s hair so hard it must hurt, and then there’s a bloom of white-hot, _intoxicating_ pain in his trapezius muscle as Tony extends his neck and _bites_ around a desperate whine, hips faltering as he finds his own release deep in Stephen’s body.

It seems like an age before they’re falling to the sweat-soaked sheets, panting for oxygen and pressed against each other as closely as humanly possible.  Stephen’s thighs are splayed widely, Tony’s slowly softening prick a beacon of wet heat in his arse, and Tony somehow manages the strength to lift Stephen’s exhausted, spent body just enough to slip out.  Stephen hisses from the oversensitivity against his prostate and rim, but then slumps bonelessly on top of Tony’s body, burrowing his face into that perfect spot in between Tony’s neck and shoulder.

He regains his breath back far quicker than Tony does – multiple surgeries and that _fucking_ damage from the Captain America shield has greatly decreased Tony’s lung capacity, even with cutting-edge prosthetics and mild Extremis doses – and simply drifts, right on the cusp of sleep.  He can feel come and lube leaking out of him, mixing with the dried remains of their first round and getting him even more filthy, and Tony’s fingers are playing with his swollen, gaping hole idly, humming quietly as he both fingers come _back_ into Stephen’s hole and massages the rest of it into the skin of his thighs and arse.  Stephen’s still sensitive but the feeling is nice regardless, and he burrows even closer, filling his nose with the scent of Tony’s cooling body and mouthing tiredly at salty skin, fingers loosely buried in Tony’s hair.

Stephen sighs in total contentment, nerves still buzzing and balls aching, and falls asleep to the sound of whispered endearments and _I love you_ s into his hair.

—

Stephen wakes up slowly, disoriented but instinctively aware that he’s safe.

He floats for what could be seconds but feels like hours, burrowing deeper into comfortable mattress and the warm body he’s entangled with.  He can feel the lack of sheets and blankets over them, as per usual – Tony runs hot and hates _being_ hot, and sleeping with another person generates enough heat that Tony tends to kick off any covers they burrow into.  Stephen, being tall and a hell of a lot leaner, generally runs cold, fingers and toes like icicles to hear Tony bitch about it, and he ends up pressed against Tony’s body to soak up that warmth like a leech.  It’s no different now, legs tangled together and Stephen curled in Tony’s strong arms, his right cheek pressing against Tony’s solid, scarred chest.

He hears the sounds of birds chirping their early morning songs, and Tony’s slow and steady breathing, quiet in a way that Tony rarely is when awake.  He can hear the strong beat of Tony’s heart in his ears and smell the musky scent of unwashed body underneath the more prevalent aroma of synthetic, water-based lubricant and sex.  Stephen smiles at that, vaguely pleased that he wore Tony down enough with that second round that he hadn’t hopped up to take a quick shower – Tony is meticulous when it comes to hygiene, showering at least three times a day, but Stephen’s always had a weakness for the smell of his partner, all scorched metal and aftershave and the remnants of the passion they share between them.

He registers the rest of his body next.  The vigorous fucking ( _both fucks, actually_ ) means that Stephen actually _can_ feel the soreness in his arse, though it’s certainly nothing to write home about; however, what really gets his attention is his hips and throat.  He lifts a heavy hand to said throat, prodding the skin with his fingers, and hums in the back of his throat to check his vocal folds.  It sounds fine, and he doesn’t feel any scabs or fluid which would suggest that Tony broke skin, so he chalks it down to a _spectacular_ series of bruises that he’s going to wear for at least two weeks.  Well, when he doesn’t hide them with magic and-or Tony’s fancy concealer, that is.  He’s thrilled at the thought of it, the idea that he can wash away or dispel the cover-ups and see how wild Tony can be when he’s unrestrained, mindless with pleasure and consumed by Stephen’s body.

That thrill wakes him up enough to finally coax his eyes open, dry with sleep, and he rubs at them with the sides of his fingers until he doesn’t feel like he’s stuck his head in a sandbox.  When he feels somewhat less...crusty, he looks down at his body with a critical eye.  Stephen’s covered in love bites from their first round, but he’s more interested in the blatantly obvious handprint he has on his left hip, one that’s likely mirrored on his right.  He grins at the sight, licks his lips, and doesn’t deny himself the urge to press his fingers into the bruises, relishing the dull twinge he feels, prick twitching against Tony’s inner thigh.

Then his stomach growls.  Loudly.

Stephen blinks, glances at Tony, and sighs in relief that the engineer hasn’t woken up; Tony sleeps like a nocturnal, colicky newborn with insomnia (a few hours here and there, usually in the early dawn hours, with ridiculously long bouts of sleeplessness in between), and Stephen is loath to wake Tony when he manages to catch some shut eye.  Stephen has never seen a human being with such debilitating nightmares before – even _Stephen_ sleeps like a goddamn teenager in comparison, and he’s died in horrible ways literally _millions_ of times – and it still terrifies and _agonises_ him to watch Tony suffer like that.

It still takes Stephen’s breath away that Tony can even look at him without flinching, after what he’s put the poor man through on top of every other transgression against his heart.

Stephen shakes off the melancholy and gingerly starts untangling their bodies, freezing at every flicker of Tony’s eyelids or tiny movement of relaxed muscle.  It takes ages, and by the time he’s on his feet, his stomach is positively screaming at him and rather lightheaded.  It makes sense, he supposes – they had skipped dinner in exchange for an hour of vigorous sex, had recovered for thirty minutes, and then gone again with some magical help, and he’s ravenous for carbohydrates and a cuppa.  He’s in the mood for something sweet...a cup of fruit and a bagel, perhaps, with strawberry cream cheese.

His stomach rumbles loudly at the thought, vision greying out at the edges.

He glances at the clock and decides that it’s too fucking early for anyone else in this compound to be awake – well, other than Rogers and Barnes, perhaps, but even 04:38 is a bit early for their usual morning run.  Confident that he’ll be alone for the short amount of time that it’ll take him to brew a cup of tea and toast a bagel, he simply looks around the floor, grabbing the first things he sees – those pink, satin shorts and a shrunken red AC/DC shirt that Tony usually sleeps in – and slipping it on.  He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and snorts softly, because Tony’s _tiny_ in comparison to Stephen’s long limbs (though he’s certainly bulkier).  A wide sliver of his stomach and hips are on display, prominently showing the fingerprints bruised into his skin, and the stretched collar displays every purple love bite on his neck, including the truly massive one on his right trapezius muscle.  Even the insides of his thighs and upper arms are splattered with the bruises, and _fuck_ , but he looks like a goddamn _whore_ like this, pale skin highlighting the bruises and his hair a bloody mess.  He looks debased, courtesy of Tony Stark, and he has to grit his teeth and think of dead kittens to keep his prick from filling with blood.

He can pull one off later, preferably once Tony’s awake to watch; Stephen quite likes an audience after all, and Tony’s always game for a show.

With that delicious thought, he heads off to the communal kitchen to appease his complaining stomach.

—

Bucky hears movement in the kitchen up ahead, coinciding with the synthetic light he can see as well.

He’s in his joggers, trainers, and an old shirt with the Stark Industries logo on it, a joke gift from Tony after all the deconditioning hell had come to an end.  ‘ _Congrats, old man_ ,’ he’d said with a happy grin, so unlike the bitter, fake smiles from their early days of true acquaintance, ‘ _you’re officially just a regular guy with bad people skills and a metal arm.  Cheers!_ ’

Despite the shit in the past with Tony’s parents, and even without taking into consideration that Bucky’s only alive _because_ of Stark (both for removing the horrific triggers to save Bucky’s sanity as well as the simple fact that Tony’s actions in the war had brought him and the other half of the _actual_ _universe_ back to life), Bucky actually really likes the guy.  It’s the only thing that he and Steve argue about, actually, because Steve still has...issues with Tony (and honestly, it’s clearly mutual, though they’re both getting better about being in the same room with each other).

Bucky can’t help but frown in the direction of the kitchen because he knows it’s not Steve – they both get up early for their usual run around the compound and subsequent workout in one of the many gyms here, but they both eat after they’re done.  He pauses next to the glass balcony doorways, the closest exit from his quarters, and ponders whether he should check out the noise; it’s certainly not a threat, because Bucky doesn’t have the gut feeling that there’s _danger close_ , nor has Miss Friday kicked up a fuss, and that splendid computer lady has a higher capability to secure the compound than anyone else in the entire world.  There’s no way Miss Friday wouldn’t alert the inhabitants of AHQ if there was an intruder, plus it would be odd for said intruder to go to the kitchen of all places.

Still, Bucky’s curious about who’s up at this hour, since he and Steve are the only early risers, and with a quick glance out the glass doors for Steve’s characteristic blond mop (who clearly isn’t at their meeting spot underneath a clump of trees at the edge of the perimeter, judging by all the green), he edges forward quietly.

However, the sight he sees at the open doorway stops him in his tracks, mouth gaping and eyes wide.

Bucky’s seen some things in his life, both before and after being programmed by HYDRA, but he’s never seen anything like this: a tall guy – Stephen Strange, the magical doctor, Tony’s...paramour of sorts, judging by the white at his temples – eating something – wheat, toasted, some sort of fruity dairy, wait, bagel, it’s a bagel – over the sink, clothed in _practically nothing_ – red shirt (probably Stark’s judging by the short length and the loose fabric around Strange’s narrow shoulders, due to Tony’s much broader back) and _pink_ pants (or perhaps they’re shorts?) that have ‘BITCH’ written across the muscular curve of his buttocks (though the ‘B’ has been crossed out in exchange for a handwritten ‘W’, and that’s Tony’s handwriting for sure).

A part of him is confused, because Strange is the poshest person Bucky’s ever met.  Never a hair out of place, covered in impeccably tailored robes or occasionally dressed down in pressed jeans, a button-up, and spotless trainers, smooth unblemished skin and a perfectly trimmed goatee.  This current image is a total juxtaposition of that because at the present moment he looks like a callboy, kiss-bruised skin on display, fucking _handprints_ on his hips (that match the size of Tony’s hands), hair a mop atop his head.  It’s utterly indecent, seeing a person in clothes like that while covered in marks like those, even with the amount of skin he sees on folks nowadays and on the beach back in the forties.

Another part of him is curious, because he grew up in the thirties and forties, and markin’ up a lady like that would’ve been grounds for a beating by her daddy and brothers if she had them, all for touching their little girl.  Bucky hadn’t left any marks for a lady’s family to find except once on Sally Miller’s neck by accident, and he’d had to avoid the Millers for almost a year because Mr Miller would’ve shot him dead.  While Bucky knows that the twenty-first century is a completely different thing, boys and girls walking around in clothes that makes the forties look like the Victorian age, he’s never seen a person _that_ wrecked with his own two eyes before.  In any case, judging by the easy calm and languid contentment in Strange’s body language, Bucky knows that whatever the two of them did was consensual, so all Bucky can think is that, as a man who hasn’t felt the intimate touch of another body in seventy years, he can’t even _comprehend_ the night Strange must’ve had with Tony to end up looking like _that_.  It’s actually quite fascinating.

The rest of him can’t help but want to take a picture, and that’s a thought that takes Bucky by surprise.  Not because Bucky’s a homosexual – though, to be quite honest with himself, he’s always eyed fellows in his own way, even though he’s always been more attracted to the ladies – or because he finds Strange attractive – if he was going to get in the middle of that relationship (and he’s most certainly not) he’d be chasing _Tony_ for _sure_ , though he can’t help but think that Strange _is_ an attractive man for the first time since meeting him – but because he feels like this is a one-in-a-lifetime moment that he’ll _never_ be able to explain with words to the rest of the Avengers.

All of those thoughts are rolling through his mind when Strange fills up a baby blue cup with boiling water from the water dispenser, drops a teabag into the scalding water (Earl Grey if he reads the tag correctly), places it on a saucer, and then turns his head towards Bucky, multi-coloured eyes looking straight into Bucky’s own wide, blue ones, holding the handle of his cup with one shaking, scarred hand and holding the saucer flat with the palm of the other.

Bucky’s heart stutters in his chest, because hell, he hadn’t meant to be _caught_ , and what kind of ex-assassin is he?  The flat, expressionless look on Strange’s face is indecipherable, and Bucky can’t for the life of him tell if Strange is angry, embarrassed, amused, or even completely unconcerned that he’s been caught looking like he does.  Strange is a self-confident little shit, mixed in with the weird humour that Bucky doesn’t get half the time and the self-important preening that reminds Bucky of Tony, but there’s no denying that the fellow can get vicious when he’s angry, so every atom in Bucky’s body is torn between fight-or-flight, frozen as effectively as cryo as his brain whirls with escape routes and potential actions.

Honestly, he’s much more partial to flight, if it comes to that.  Bucky knows for a fact that, serum or not, Strange would wipe the floor with him, and if there’s the smallest chance that Strange is even remotely defensive or upset, Bucky needs to bolt before Strange sends him to another dimension to die.  He notices that Strange doesn’t have that bulky ring-thing that channels his magic tricks, so that should give him enough time to at least get off the compound before he’s obliterated.

Bucky’s not sure how long they stare at each other, Bucky frozen and Strange indecipherable, before Strange lifts the blue cup from its saucer and takes a long sip, the water still scalding judging by the copious amount of steam still rising from it.  Bucky’s eyes widen even further when Strange doesn’t even flinch, simply swallowing his mouthful (and accenting his kiss-bitten neck to boot) before returning the cup to its saucer and literally _strutting_ past Bucky towards the direction of Tony’s suite.

Bucky stands there, frozen, for ages, mind shrieking with confusion and abject horror and a small amount of surprising _arousal_ , until Steve finds him, a concerned expression on his handsome face and a question on his lips.

Bucky swallows and says slowly to his oldest friend, “You will never _guess_ what I just saw...”

—

Tony catches onto what Stephen’s been doing because of a heated conversation he overhears in the gym.

Stephen’s been even more unbearably smug as of late (Tony’s not complaining, like, _at all_ , because Stephen’s smoking hot when he’s smug), but he’s kept his lips sealed.  It’s a bit infuriating, admittedly, but Tony’s also intrigued because he wants to figure out the game.  Of course, he hadn’t expected blatant _modelling_ to James Buchanan Barnes of all people, but Tony can totally see it.  Stephen’s kinky as fuck, and he’s also an unapologetic show-off, in things both sexual _and_ mundane.

So Tony chokes back the hysterical laughter that desperately wants to come out of his throat, hides himself against the wall leading into the gym, and continues to listen to the animated discussion going on inside.

“I’m sorry, but this is Strange we’re talking about,” Rogers is saying, his voice a bit patronising to Tony’s ear (though Tony’s biased for sure).  “He is an impeccable sort of fellow, isn’t he, always dressed to the nines and properly composed.  I honestly can’t believe that he’d walk around in...in women’s clothing, Buck, and I’ve never even seen a bruise on him outside of the usual battle wounds.  Are you sure this wasn’t a dream?”

“He was in _lingerie_ , Stevie.  Black and red _lingerie_ , I swear on my life, and it had _bows_.  On his _nipples_.”

“I would pay some serious cash to see that,” Natasha says, her voice thick with amusement, and Tony hears a smack that is probably a high-five.  If Tony was to put money on it, he’d bet it was Scott, because that man is an equal opportunity hot mess, bless his heart.

“I think this is an irrelevant discussion,” Vision says in his usual diplomatic tone.  “If you truly wish to confirm this, simply ask FRIDAY to corroborate.”

“I already have,” Wilson complains with a strain to his voice, and there’s a clunk of weights being dropped to the rubberised floor.  Through deep breaths, Wilson continues, “She just tells me to mind my own business.”

Tony muffles his sniggers with a hand, charmed by his sassy little girl once more, as he hears Scott say brightly, “We’ve started camping out in the kitchen if you wanna join in.  Bucky brings a camera and everything!”

Tony hears Rogers choke as Natasha says, “I’m not convinced that Barnes hasn’t had a series of... _vivid_ dreams for our resident sorcerer, but I can’t count it out either.  Call it curiosity, but I need to know if this is a real occurrence or if Barnes needs to get his head checked again.”

Tony doesn’t need to be in the room to know that Bucky is glaring a hole into her head.

“I just wanna see that man in pretty clothes,” Scott says gleefully, and Tony can’t even be mad because _boy_ does he understand the sentiment behind _that_.  He’s doubly amused when Rogers actually starts spluttering in horror, and fuck, Tony’s going to rip something if he keeps holding back his laughter like this.

“Okay, I don’t give a shit about that, because girls for me all the way little dude, but I’m thinking more blackmail,” Wilson says with a laugh.  “I like the guy, surprisingly, but good old-fashioned ribbing is part of the family dynamic and I’ve always wanted to see him blush.”  Tony thinks that that’s a bit of a tall order, because the only time Tony’s seen Stephen Strange blush is when he’s stuffed full of Tony’s prick, and that’s just a biological reaction to heated arousal.  Stephen is a stoic man to his core, and even _Tony’s_ more prone to being visibly embarrassed than Stephen is (which is high-praise, coming from Tony).  Besides, Stephen’s apparently been strutting around the compound in nothing but Tony’s ‘presents’ while Tony’s been asleep, so clearly he’s not ashamed of showing off said ‘presents’ while being covered in the evidence of their wild nights in bed together, and it’s certainly not blackmail if Stephen’s obviously offering the show freely.

Though actual physical evidence is concerning, particularly in the hands of Natasha Romanoff.  She doesn’t exactly have a good track record with that sort of thing.

Wilson adds cheekily, “So what d’you say, Cap?  Fifty bucks for whoever gets the pic first?”  And yeah, Tony should definitely make his presence known now.

“Ooh, we betting in here?” he asks with a grin as he finally rounds the corner, giving a jaunty salute to the individuals inside the gym.  “What’s the stakes?  Who can steal Rhodey’s favourite chair and duct tape it to the ceiling?  Who can break into my lab first?  First person to get Rogers to say ‘fuck’?  Hell, first person to get Rogers _laid_?  I’d put in a million for that alone.  _God_ knows it’d chill him out.”

The glare he receives from Rogers is absolutely glorious.

“Hey Stark, your man into kinky lingerie?” asks Scott, wiggling his eyebrows.

Tony takes a few seconds to stare at the man, and then says evenly, “That sounds fun.”

Scott practically falls over laughing, leaning heavily on a treadmill, as Wilson shouts, “Wait, so you’re saying Barnes is _right_?!  Strange is—oh my _God_ , no, _no_ , I do _not_ need that mental picture in my head!”  Clint and Natasha are standing off to the side, the former looking rather disgusted and the latter straight-faced as hell, but Bucky looks triumphant and Rogers...well, Rogers is starting to turn purple.  Actually purple.  It’s genuinely a shit look for him really, and that’s not even the bias talking.

Tony rolls his eyes as he fights desperately not to laugh.  “Calm down, Chicken Little, I think I’d know if Stephen was waltzing around AHQ in lingerie.”

“He is though,” Bucky insists quietly.  “I’ve seen it three times now, and I know you know about it.  I...”  He trails off, and Tony’s tickled to see that Bucky appears to be blushing.  Well.  Imagine that.  The big, bad Winter Soldier (admittedly neutered due to BARF and a _lot_ of therapy) blushing about Stephen dressed in pretty things (and likely covered in an abundance of love bites too, the slag).  Tony raises an eyebrow, silently imploring him to continue.

Bucky glances around at the group, eyes Rogers (who’s starting to regain his usual colouring), and then sets his intense blue gaze on Tony.  “I wouldn’t have pegged it with the lingerie but I can with the pink shorts.  They had your _handwriting_ on them, Tony.  While I agree that the doctor isn’t...isn’t a rude term for a lady, I also think ‘witch’ is rather cruel, even if he does do magic.”

Tony freezes, does some quick thinking, and then answers with his usual PR mask in place, “Right, so you think I’ve been...er, writing on a pair of shorts—”

“Hot pink booty shorts,” Scott interjects with a grin.

Tony glances at him and dutifully amends, “Okay, fine, hot pink _booty shorts_ just so he can strut around AHQ to mess with you guys?  Have you _met_ my boyfriend?”

Wilson points at Tony with a nod, obviously agreeing with Tony’s unspoken _c’mon-this-is-the-Sorcerer-Supreme-and-he’s-classier-than-that_ undertone.  Scott looks crushed, to Tony’s amusement, whereas Rogers has finally regained his breath and skin tone back, saying in a slightly shaky voice, “I agree with Tony on this one.  Strange is too composed to do that Buck.  I think you’ve...uh, just had some dreams and got confused.”

“No,” Natasha says, making everyone’s eyes snap to her instantly.  Tony’s immediately on guard, because it looks like she’s staring right into Tony’s soul, a feeling that never bodes well for Tony.  At all.  “Barnes is right: this has definitely been happening, and Tony knows _exactly_ what Barnes is talking about.”

At least Scott looks like he’s regained some purpose back into his life, the adorable idiot.

And actually, Tony _hadn’t_ known about Stephen’s forays into kinky catwalks for the Avengers crowd – and still technically doesn’t, officially at least, but the description of Stephen’s lingerie and those sexy, _sexy_ shorts are too spot on to be a coincidence – so he channels that inner denial that’s not a lie (yet) and says earnestly, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.  I think I’d know if my boyfriend was giving you a free show.”

“Five hundred,” Natasha challenges.

“A thousand and we keep this in-house, which means Avengers only, and only if they’re over eighteen,” Tony shoots back, mind already whirling with possibilities to gain the upper hand _and_ fuck with his “teammates”.  He also has the urgent need to keep Peter out of this, hence the addition – Tony has scarred that kid quite enough already without bringing in Tony’s sex life with Stephen, ta ever so.  He can already hear and see the dramatic whinging and red-faced flailing that would result, and May would kill Tony if he broke Peter’s brain.

“Deal,” Natasha says, and she’s smirking at him now.

“Hey, I want in on this,” Wilson says, and Scott’s nodding along as well.

Clint rolls his eyes and mumbles, “He’s so going to cheat anyway, so what’s the point?”  Which, yeah, that’s valid, but also not relevant, because ‘no cheating’ hasn’t been stated as a rule.

So Tony rolls his eyes yet again, sighs, and says, “Fine, knock yourselves out, and as Peter says, ‘Pics or it didn’t happen’.  Don’t come crying to me when you find out this is a fever dream though, and Bucky, there are plenty of other wizard fish in the sea, so fantasise about _them_ instead of mine, okay?”

Bucky’s ears are bright pink as Tony turns on his heel, waving absently as he exits the gym.  He needs to get to the New York Sanctum fast and scheme with Stephen, and maybe if he’s lucky, he can get dinner and a happy ending too.

Tony likes happy endings.

—

Stephen, in the shorts and a crop top that says ‘CREAM FILLED’, walks back into Tony’s suite with a smirk.

“It worked,” Stephen says in lieu of a greeting, tossing the coin-sized electromagnetic pulse device ( _not built with nuclear technology!_ Tony had assured him) onto the desk in the corner of the room before advancing on a naked, lounging Tony.

“Of course it worked – _I_ built it,” Tony quips with a grin, already pulling Stephen down.  One toe-curling kiss later, Tony continues against Stephen’s lips, “What were their reactions like?”

Stephen recalls the aftermath he’d witnessed from the security of the mirror dimension: Lang grinning and bright eyed, obviously more excited that the rumour was true rather than upset that the EMP erased all their data; Wilson shouting angrily, pushing the buttons on his mobile frantically to get the thing to even turn on; Romanoff sitting in silence on the floor, eyes distant due to planning the next twelve moves, her dead camera on the floor next to her; Barnes frowning at his own camera as if confused, but occasionally saying to the others as if a broken record, ‘ _I told you it was true_ ’ _._

“Well,” Stephen says out loud, and in between gentle kisses to the scars on Tony’s face and neck, he murmurs, “it would be redundant to tell you, since you’re...what was it?  ‘A magnificent genius who has eyes in all places and the mad skills to make sure it stays that way’, correct?”

“Whoever said that is the genius, not me,” Tony says breathily, hands roaming up and down Stephen’s back underneath the baggy crop top.

Stephen kisses both of Tony’s closed eyelids, feeling the soft tickle of those lush eyelashes against his sensitive lips, and teases in a low rumble, “Your humility is inspiring.”

“Like you’re any better,” Tony scoffs, but there isn’t any heat in it.  Stephen’s not surprised, because he can feel Tony’s bare erection pressed against his own, only separated by thin pink satin.

Stephen hums, then cups Tony’s face into his palms and pulls him into another long kiss.  It’s a glorious one, soft and lingering, drinking up the other’s presence as thumbs caress and oxygen mingles.  As much as Stephen likes their wild, inventive nights (and there are a lot of those), he cherishes these moments too – stroking hands, whispered words, slow build-up, languorous thrusts, a soft exhale of breath as they come together.  These moments are far and few between, their hectic lives too consuming and stressful to spend the time just _being_ together in that unhurried way, but it makes Stephen appreciate them all the more.  Stephen is not prone to sentiment, but he can’t help but give into it in these quiet moments, Tony soft and pliable and _real_ against him.

It is a gift, and one that Stephen will appreciate until the day he dies.

Stephen trails fingertips across every dip, angle, line, and scar Tony possesses, following every touch with a tender brush of his lips, mapping out Tony’s already familiar body methodically, leisurely, _lovingly_.  He drinks in Tony’s sigh when he traces the white scar on the apple of Tony’s cheek, Tony’s shiver when he outlines every abdominal muscle, Tony’s breathless laugh when he strokes every rib, Tony’s exhale when he palms the dark hair on his arms, Tony’s husky moan when he follows the crease where his thigh meets his leg.  Every reaction is beautiful on this man, this unbelievably brave and loyal human being, a man who has sacrificed every single part of himself for both people that deserve it and people who don’t.  Stephen unwraps every facet of Anthony Stark with his fingers and lips until that man is bare beneath him, body relaxed and malleable despite his hard prick, face smooth of every worry and aggravation and thought that weighs on him day after day despite the fact that reality will return as it always does.

And when Stephen feels Tony come inside of him, swallowing Tony’s sigh with a kiss, he whispers those three words he doesn’t say nearly enough against Tony’s lips, baring his own soul to the man he sacrificed half the universe for.

 _I love you_.

—

Tony’s reading over an SI document on a pharmaceutical PR campaign when Clint walks in.

Without even a hello, Clint drones, “I’m actually kind of surprised that Nat got duped like she did, but whatever, I like beating her.  Now pay up, arsehole.”

He tosses a photo at Tony, and Tony can’t help but snigger, because the photo is hilarious and pretty hot.  Taken from a high vantage point, it’s obviously Stephen, looking behind himself as if checking the corridor behind him, and fuck, but Tony loves when Stephen twists his lean, limber body like that.  Due to the angle, the words on his shirt are hidden, but the ‘ ~~B~~ WITCH’ on the swell of his arse is clear, just like the sharp angles of his face.  The quality of the picture is crap, but there’s no weaselling his way out of this one.

Still though...  “How did you manage to get this?  Everyone else’s tech was fried, and this was taken right outside of the kitchen, so it should’ve been in range of the EMP.”

Clint rolls his eyes.  “That’s the thing with you tech-heads; you always forget about good ‘ole nineties shit.”  He digs into the pocket in his oversized jacket and tosses a yellow disposable camera, a cheap thing that Tony hadn’t even known were still being produced in the current digital age, as well as a packet of additional photos.  It makes Tony smack a hand to his forehead in self-directed annoyance, because film isn’t affected by EMPs, and despite the fact that he hadn’t known these things were still around, he still should’ve anticipated something like this.  “Yeah, no kidding,” Clint says with a mocking grin, but it’s amused rather than sharp, thankfully.  “I wasn’t even going to play, because I knew you’d cheat, but I really _do_ like beating Nat, so whatever, right?  And a grand is a nice chunk of change, especially when it’s practically stealing from a newborn.”

Tony glares at Clint but there’s no ire in it.  Instead, he just grabs his StarkPad and silently transfers the thousand into Clint’s bank account wirelessly, grumpy that he’s lost the bet _so quickly_.  He hates losing that fast; it’s a pride thing, and Tony has a lot of pride.

Once the dosh is transferred, Tony looks up and eyes Clint, who’s smirking at Tony’s clear disgruntlement.  Slowly, he asks, “Any copies?”

“Nah,” Clint drawls with a huff.  “Like I’d want to keep that shit.  Nat didn’t get any either, I made sure of that.  If it makes you feel any better about losing, I made sure that Steve got to see the pictures, and I’m fairly certain that he’s currently trying to drown himself in the pool out of sheer mortification.”  Tony bursts out laughing, almost falling out of his chair from the force of it, and Clint looks mischievously amused by the reaction.  “Yeah, figured you’d like that.  Make FRIDAY show you the recording of it – it’s the funniest shit I’ve seen in _years_.  Anyway, thanks for the easy money, Stark, and let me know if you have an urge to lose another bet.”

Tony’s still laughing too hard to quip back, tears at the corners of his eyes, and he just flops his hand in Clint’s direction as the archer leaves, a clear hop to his strut.  Tony tries desperately to get his laughter under control as he shakily gathers the pictures, heading over to the scanner in the corner of his office.  After all, it’d just be a waste to not have these pictures saved into his private server for his viewing pleasure.  Hell, perhaps Stephen will take offense to the low quality and demand a photoshoot, with _all_ his pretty things instead of just the shorts, and that’s one thing Tony’s _totally_ game for.

Tony makes a mental note to build a catwalk and more pretty things, effective _immediately_.


	5. Choke On It, Babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen likes going without oxygen.
> 
> Tony's more than happy to oblige.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So [my wife Moki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mokisaur/profile) shared [this tumblr post](http://meshkol.tumblr.com/post/176755088469/sherlockspeare-every-enemy-seems-to-obsess-with#notes) with me. I loved it to pieces, but was distracted by other things at the time. However, [the lovely clobeast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clobeast/profile) sent it to me again and between those two, this drabble was born.
> 
> Please send help. These two are going to be the death of me. Both Clo and Moki as well as Tony and Stephen. Or maybe just Stephen's choking kink. That too.

“Open up, baby,” Tony says, rough with arousal.

Stephen opens his mouth obediently, already purposefully hyperventilating through his throat to saturate his blood with oxygen in preparation.  Tony’s hard prick twitches at the sight, because he loves it when Stephen gets himself ready; the more Stephen hyperventilates, the more light-headed he gets and the longer he can go without oxygen.

And Stephen likes going without oxygen.

Stephen’s laying face-up on Tony’s bed like a wanton whore, clad in nothing but lacy red knickers that are pulled down just enough in the front to expose his hard prick and heavy balls.  His long, lean legs are stretched out wide, tied to the under-the-bed restraints that Tony’s picked out just for Stephen – blood red leather, to match his knickers, with black felt underneath, and _fuck_ Stephen looks good in red – strapped to his slender ankles.  His arms are not restrained, for obvious reasons, but he’s still wearing the identical cuffs around his wrists just so Tony can relish the sight.  The nipple clamps are black metal and burgundy silicone at the tip, with a chain connecting the two of them together; another single black chain trails down the centre of his stomach until it connects to the black ring tightly wrapped around his prick and balls.  Stephen’s prick is blood red itself, from arousal and the pressure from the ring, and the taut chain ensures that it juts out proudly from his chest like a marionette on a string.  Stephen’s head is hanging off the mattress, neck falling backwards as his damp, black and white hair hangs down towards the floor.  It shows that pretty mouth in high relief, as well as the flush on Stephen’s sharp cheekbones and the long, pale column of his neck.

Stephen’s eyes are closed, relaxed and open, ready-ready- _ready_ to take it, but Tony’s not done teasing him yet.  The mattress is high enough for Tony not to strain himself upwards, but low enough where he doesn’t have to hunch, but instead of sliding into that warm, wet mouth like he’s aching to do, he grips his prick with one hand and a handful of Stephen’s hair with the other.  He yanks Stephen’s head even lower, forcing Stephen’s hyperventilation to be interrupted by a moan, and Tony rasps, “Breathe for me Stephen.”

Stephen obeys instantly; Tony feels himself groan in the back of his throat as he nudges forward and begins slapping that displayed tongue with the underside of his prick with a lewd sound, Stephen’s shallow pants brushing forceful exhalations of air against Tony’s sensitive skin.  He hits him gently, over and over again, keeping Stephen’s head tightly in place, and then glances up at the sight of movement.  Stephen’s legs are restless in their restraints, and he’s circling his hips into the air.  The taut chain pulls on the base of his ruddy prick and his balls, yanking it almost harshly towards his stomach when he bucks in his restraints, and on every fast exhale, Stephen’s whining, a thin and high-pitched sound that is utterly desperate.

Tony can’t take it anymore, and nudges even closer forward as he guides the head of his hard prick into Stephen’s mouth.

Tony lets Stephen work the head and frenulum with his tongue and mouth, giving Stephen a moment to get used to the girth of Tony while building back up saliva.  After a long moment, Stephen breathing heavily through his nose, Stephen feels wet and relaxed enough so Tony says breathlessly, “Hands up, baby.”  Stephen responds on the second word, his hands reaching up to grasp Tony’s hips, and when Tony feels like Stephen’s got a well-enough hold, he pushes forward, _slowly_ , slipping the entirety of his prick into that magnificent, greedy throat.

Tony’s not as long as Stephen, but he’s girthier, and Tony’s mesmerised as he watches the bones and cartilage of Stephen’s throat bulge to accommodate his prick.  Halfway down, Stephen’s breathing is cut off, and despite not having a gag reflex, Stephen chokes at the intrusion, making the most debauched noise as his throat ripples around Tony’s erection.  Tony moans in response, pressing his pubic bone against Stephen’s sharp cheeks, feeling his balls against Stephen’s sweaty forehead and hair, and holds for five long seconds ( _one-one thousand, two-one thousand..._ ) before he slowly lets off.

He doesn’t remove his prick entirely, just enough for Stephen’s nasal passage to open back up so Stephen can catch his breath through his nose, both because he knows from experience now that Stephen needs to grow accustomed to his mouthful of prick as well as because Stephen’s back to sucking and tonguing his shaft and frenulum once more.  It’s uncoordinated and messy, Stephen drooling all over Tony’s prick for lubrication as he focusses on giving Tony pleasure and getting his breath back, but Tony only allows Stephen a handful of seconds before he grips each side of Stephen’s head tightly and guides back in.

He increases the time between each dive, allowing Stephen a few more seconds to catch his breath for each increased period of suffocation.  Despite the tension in his prick and balls, _needing_ to bury himself into that tight, hot throat and _fucking come_ , he’s still highly aware of Stephen’s hands at his waist.  They’ve played around with unconsciousness before, and they both very much like it, but it’s hard to tell sometimes.  This way, if Stephen passes out, Tony will know instantly because his hands will drop like logs, giving Tony a visual cue that Stephen’s gone so he can pull out.  It’s always better to be safe than sorry, and Tony won’t take a chance with Stephen, never.

Tony pushes and pushes and pushes, for longer bouts each time, and eventually he removes one hand from Stephen’s head, wrapping his scarred and calloused fingers around that long, slender throat.  He can _feel_ his prick lodged deep inside, _feel_ Stephen choke and spasm against the intrusion, but Stephen just takes it and _takes_ it, like he was born to be smothered and choked by Tony’s girthy, rigid prick.  Tony squeezes lightly, his eyes rolling back into his head as Stephen gags and flutters around Tony’s prick, breathing heavily through Stephen’s raw choking.

Tony opens his eyes, lets his other hand reach around to the back of Stephen’s head to grab a tight handful of hair.  He’s _so close_ , and he growls, “Get ready for me baby.”

Stephen’s hands squeeze once on his waist in acceptance, and Tony watches as Stephen’s entire body goes boneless in preparation.

Tony yanks Stephen’s head down even farther and then begins fucking Stephen’s throat like an animal, not allowing Stephen to breathe or take a break, desperate to stuff Stephen’s stomach full of his come.  He thrusts into that delicious, spasming throat, taking what he wants how he wants it.  Stephen’s tongue is wiggling as best it can along the underside of Tony’s prick, but mostly he just takes it, his back arching and hips thrusting into air despite the strain the ring puts on his erection and balls, prick positively soaked with precome and almost purple with arousal.  Tony’s palm presses into Stephen’s throat just below his Adam’s apple, not enough to crush his windpipe but enough to feel the deep thrust of his prick; his fingers press into each side of Stephen’s neck, cutting off blood flow just enough for Stephen’s face to go red as he chokes inside and out.  It causes Stephen to quiver and tighten around Tony’s prick, the friction maddening, and Tony’s balls are tight as he rasps, “Take it, baby, take every inch of my cock, fuck, _choke_ on it you little slut, it’s all your good for, taking my cock like a whore, take it-take it- _take i_ —”

Tony goes taut and freezes for a long second, prick buried in Stephen’s throat as he comes and comes, each pulse both a relief and agony.  His hands are tight in Stephen’s hair and around his throat, and he hears Stephen make a gurgling, raw sound, his fingernails digging into Tony’s hips.  Tony’s eyes open, and he can’t help but jerk his hips once more into that spasming throat because _Stephen’s coming_ , each shot of come arching high enough to hit his pebbled nipples and sternum, and _fuck-fuck-fuck_ Tony’s never seen anything so fucking beautiful in his life.

When his aching balls are empty, Tony pulls out slowly, shaking with exertion and covered in perspiration, blurry vision taking in Stephen’s absolutely trashed appearance – bright red face, sweaty skin, broken blood vessels in his face and eyes, deep heaves and coughs even as he smiles dopily, high with natural chemicals and the force of his orgasm.  It takes Tony’s breath away just as much as asphyxiation would, and falls to his knees, nuzzling his nose into the damp skin of Stephen's hair as both hands begin lightly stroking and massaging Stephen’s bruised throat.

Stephen hums hoarsely, vocal folds wrecked, and Tony leans over him, cradling the back of Stephen’s head gently.  He presses a long, lingering, exhausted kiss onto Stephen’s wet, swollen lips, tongue chasing the taste of his own precome and prick, and then murmurs into Stephen’s mouth, “Thank you baby, you did so good.  I love you so much.”

Stephen smiles.


	6. Three's Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: probably a bad idea: thor/tony/stephen where thor has the two of them dress in matching red and blue lingerie and fuck each other while he watches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there I was, minding my own fuckin’ business on the SS discord, and this prompt was thrown at my face like a battering ram. RUDE. So [jayjay-graceless](https://jayjay-graceless.tumblr.com/), here’s some porn. Probably shit, ‘cos I dunno how to write Thor, and unbeta’d af, but I hope you like it.

Thor’s not shy.

His brother would call him _boisterous_ and _cheerful_ and _an absolute pain in my side_ and Loki’s not wrong – Thor’s always been a positive person, and he has never been wary of letting his general enthusiasm out to the world.  How else will the world know how Thor feels if he does not express it and besides, what’s wrong with showing observers that he can be a just and friendly king if he does not emote himself?  He does not want to fall into the hole of stoic kings of the past, for while it might garner respect from his more serious subjects, it is not in his _heart_ to be so apathetic, and he does not want to only receive respect but additionally _love_.  He is resolute in his belief that love and genuine caring is the cornerstone of just ruling, and his subjects are his _family_ , his life-blood and the reason he still has the courage to wake up from his nightly slumbers.

Thor’s enthusiasm is embedded into his very core, but this is not something that is only reserved for things like an honourable battle, or the simple pleasure of the breeze against his skin, or the affection of his friends and family, or the delight of strawberry waffles with whipped cream.  No, it pertains to much more than those things, and Thor is not shy in expressing _any_ of his emotions and thoughts, either through words or actions.

“You are a lovely creature,” Thor says earnestly from where he’s sat on the large bed of Tony’s quarters, cross-legged and back against the headboard as he observes the scene in front of him.  The owner of said bed is stretched out, width-wise on the bed instead of the usual length-wise, and his body is undulating with arousal.  Tony does make a pretty picture: golden scarred skin on display, hard muscles tense underneath as Tony digs his forearms and knees into the mattress; eyes like dark treacle, full lashes fluttering as he fights the urge to close his eyes; a sheen of sweat covering his body like a glittering mist, emphasising his angles and the divots of battle.  Thor is enraptured by his meagre clothes though, if they can even be called ‘clothes’ – the maroon scraps of fabric leave nothing to the imagination, simply a sheer collar of lace and then the sheer lingerie bottoms of lace that are more strapped shorts than anything.  The maroon highlights the flush that covers Tony’s face and chest, making him look debauched and rosy, a delectable treat that Thor wants to trace with his tongue and fingertips.  The fabric around his prick is solid though, but even so, Tony’s so hard that it bulges from its soaked cotton confines, the head intentionally trapped in the lace waistband so Thor can see it leak.

There’s no fabric covering his arse, which is convenient for Stephen (and by extension, Thor himself).  The sorcerer – Tony’s paramour and primary partner – is dressed similarly, though in a deep cobalt blue that emphasises his pale skin rather than his own flush; his long prick has been pulled out just enough so he can fuck into Tony’s eager body, balls still trapped in the cotton pouch, and Thor states at said prick as it rolls and thrusts into Tony’s body.

He slides his rigid prick through a tight fist, knuckles brushing against his heavy balls and then up to the foreskin, twisting a bit at the top as his thumb brushes across the weeping slit on every upstroke.  He’s tempted to pull faster, harder, but he matches Stephen’s thrusts as best he can, body shuddering with arousal.  His other hand plays with his hard nipples, teasing himself with gentle rubs and rough, twisting pinches, the stark contrast between the two sensations delicious and yet simultaneously agonising.  He wishes most ardently that he could join in – slide his hard, aching prick into Tony’s mouth, fuck his throat, reach for Stephen’s hips as he uses his godly strength to both hold Stephen up _and_ fuck him into Tony, something only he could do with ease – but he’s not allowed.  He’s permitted to watch his brothers-in-arms dance in carnal delight, only bringing himself to climax by his own hands, but nothing more.  He does not fault them for it, as he understands that this is a rare delight between two lovers, their exhibitionism for play but not for touch, but _oh_ how he aches to feel Tony’s throat around his prick and Stephen’s skin against his palms.

As he works himself, watching those two bodies fuck with fluid, well-practised movements, he says roughly, “Stop, wizard.”  Tony lets out a tortured groan of disapproval as Stephen obeys instantly, prick lodged in Tony’s round, muscular arse; Stephen echoes the low groan, long and drawn out with desperate frustration, and Thor can see his long-fingered, shaking fingers curl into weak fists against Tony’s hips.  Thor swallows thickly, pulls his foreskin around the head of his prick, and then rumbles through his clenched teeth, “Touch him all over, Stephen; drag your palms all over that body of his, make him twitch and quiver around your cock and cry out with his desire.  Don’t touch him where he needs it most, but everywhere else you can manage.”

Stephen follows the command, body weight on his knees and the muscles of his legs and bare arse shaking with tension, and Thor watches him dig his fingers into Tony’s solid back, scarred fingers so pale against that flushed golden skin.  Stephen drags them down his spine, fingernails leaving faint pink lines on his flesh.  He caresses the maroon lace along Tony’s waist and thighs, tracing the crease where his legs meet his thighs with fervent warmth.  Then reaches around, palming the skin all around Tony’s trapped prick, followed by his washboard stomach, his sharp hip bones, his defined pectorals.  Stephen rolls the nubs of Tony’s nipples with his fingers and they both groan in unison, hoarse and desperate as Tony’s body visibly shudders around Stephen’s buried prick.  Thor can see Tony’s hips twitching, almost unnoticeable movements to get even the smallest amount of friction against his prostate, and he wants to demand Tony to stop but it gives him a glorious idea instead.

“I want to see him come on your cock,” Thor growls, hand flying over his prick now, the urge to come heavy in his balls.  He drops a hand to pull at them, hissing with pleasure, and continues huskily, “Mark him up, Stephen; bite him, suck him, pull bruises to the surface of his skin with your teeth and lips and tongue.  Bury your hand in those pretty panties of his and fondle his greedy cock and balls until he’s begging for you to fuck him like an animal, only to realise that you aren’t going to oblige.  If he fucks himself back on your cock or into your fist, I want you to stop everything you’re doing to him, for I want him to come simply from what you do to him with your hand.  I want him covered in the marks of your ownership, and I want him to soak your hand and his panties on your still cock like the whore he is.”

Tony cries out at Thor’s words, losing the ability to hold himself upright.  He digs his sweaty forehead into the mattress, fingers clenching into the dishevelled bedding until his knuckles bleach white, but his hips still.  Thor can tell from the clench of Tony’s jaw that he’s gritting his teeth to keep from moving, from impaling himself on Stephen’s prick as he takes what he needs, and then he’s all-but _keening_ , wretched and loud, because Stephen reaches around with a low, helpless moan, pushing his shaking right hand past the lacy waistband and into the damp cotton pouch trapping Tony’s prick and balls.  Thor watches greedily as the fabric moves and stretches, Stephen’s hand working as best he can despite his injuries; he can see Stephen leaning over Tony to suck sloppy bruises into Tony’s corded neck, see his glistening teeth working at those muscles and tendons gently but with so much intent, can see the blood bloom into Tony’s skin as Stephen moves his mouth all over Tony’s neck and shoulders.

Thor can actually see _tears_ leaking from Tony’s clenched eyes as he begs disjointedly, “ _Please_ , oh God _, please_ , fuck me _, God_ , fuck me _please_ , I can’t—I _can’t_ , oh _fuck_ I—”  Stephen’s panting against Tony’s skin, little weak groans and moans tearing from his throat constantly, and the fabric is moving so fast now, giving Thor little glimpses of knuckles and fingers and balls tight against Tony’s body.

Thor pulls at his balls and prick desperately, so close and unable to keep it at bay, rasps out “come on his cock, pretty one; milk Stephen’s come like the whore you are, get yourself messy.”  Thor listens to Tony babble undecipherable words in between his cries and Thor’s spoken filth, his right hand balled into a fist and pounding at the mattress, and then he tenses up, back arching and joints locking, burying his face into the mattress to muffle the scream.

Stephen gasps an almost surprised “Oh,” his body shuddering and jerking as Tony’s arse clenches around his hard prick, and then pulls upright, tearing his hand from Tony’s sodden lingerie.  He pulls out, using one hand to hold Tony’s hips up, and uses his come-covered hand to pull once, twice, three times before he curls into himself, prick spurting out come all over Tony’s bare, round arse and gaping, twitching hole.

Thor bites his lip, pulls half a dozen more times as he watches Tony tremble and Stephen convulse, Tony wearing Stephen’s come and love bites, and then breathes out a shaky sigh as he finally reaches his peak, come seeping through his fingers, slipping around his throbbing prick and dripping onto his aching balls.

There’s nothing but panting for a long moment, all three of them coming down from the high of orgasm, and then Thor manages breathlessly, “Oh, what a joy you both are, for letting me continue to partake in this delight.” He’s still rather aroused, hard and raring to go for another round, but Midgardian men of Tony and Stephen’s age are not as able to become hard, and therefore he stands up and reaches for one of the small towels on the nearby night-stand.  He wipes his hands, prick, and balls until he’s as clean as he can manage, and then grabs at his clothes and armour so he can redress himself.

Stephen and Tony are pressed against each other, Tony still face-down while Stephen lies close to his left side.  Stephen’s caressing Tony’s body drowsily, but Tony turns his head and grins, eyes bright with endorphins and amusement.  “Hey, we always love it when you visit, Conan.  You have the filthiest mouth.”  His eyes watch Thor’s body disappear beneath fabric, as he always does, and he bites his bottom lip as he eyes Thor’s hard prick.  Thor grins, raises an eyebrow, and then gives his hard prick a few shameless pulls just to see Tony’s eyes darken with arousal.

“I take offence to that,” Stephen mumbles into Tony’s left shoulder blade, a hint of disgruntlement in his deep, rumbling tone.

Tony rolls his eyes, but quickly focusses back on Thor’s body as it’s slowly hidden from sight.  “Okay, fine, you have the _second_ filthiest mouth.”  Thor sees him shudder when Thor leaves his trousers open, only so he can pull at his prick as it hangs out lewdly.  He leaves it for last so Tony can look his fill, and by the time that he’s gotten his head into his soft Henley, Stephen’s joined in Tony’s appreciation.  Their eyes trace every centimetre of Thor’s body, lingering on the jut of Thor’s exposed, leaking prick, and Thor can’t help but grin even wider.

 “I am always happy to join in on your most private of moments,” he finally says, giving them a few more moments of Thor pulling his wet prick before he gingerly tucks the hard, girthy weight of it into his trousers and pants, buttoning them up and zipping up the flies.  Even though every bit of him wants to stay with these men, touching them, feeling their warmth, kissing their lips and bodies like a man starved for it, he is still truthful in his earnest statement, and he continues merrily, “As always, my dear friends, if you ever wish to include me again, I would be most pleased.  I bid you goodbye, Tony Stark and Stephen Strange, until next time.”

He picks up his axe, smiles happily at the two gorgeous men in their maroon and cobalt lingerie, and then summons the Bifrost, leaving them to their post-coital rituals and already looking forward to the next time.


	7. Aliens Have No Concept of Personal Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen and Tony get taken to an alien queen after an infiltration mission goes south.
> 
> It gets a bit...messy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wife [moki](https://ssironstrange.tumblr.com/) is a horrible enabler and sent me a bunch of art pieces (both canon and not) of the boys being...ahem, surrounded by tentacles. Then this happened. I blame her.
> 
> Unbeta'd as per usual, and is a bit non/dub-con ish, so just be cognisant of that. Then again, it's tentacle porn, so I figured that'd be instinctively implied. In any case, I hope you enjoy.

“Okay, so this isn’t exactly our best moment,” Tony remarks flippantly.

Stephen swallows the scathing diatribe that _oh-so-dearly_ wants to erupt from his vocal folds and simply replies as evenly as he can manage, “Do shut the fuck up, Stark.  If you talk again, I’m going to beat you to death with your own ego.”

“Kinda hard right now, don’t you think?” Tony says cheerfully, but Stephen can tell from the waver in his tone that he’s more unnerved than he’s letting on (amongst other things, but Stephen tries to not think about that).  It makes sense, considering their current circumstances, and while Tony is familiar with aliens, he’s mostly likely not _familiar_ with aliens.  Stephen, however, is in both the diplomatic sense _and_ the Biblical – though the situation itself is different due to their current captivity, Stephen is an old hat with other species and dimensional beings.

Stephen grits his teeth with a sharp inhale, mentally counts to ten in Nepali, and then bites out, “Stark, I swear to God, one more pun out of you and there won’t be anything left of you to identify.”

The whole situation is infuriating and bizarre.  The Illuminati had been called into an emergency briefing about a race of hive-minded aliens called the Advani that were planning on attacking Earth, and considering multiple fronts of conflict involving all Enhanced and Mutant teams, they had decided to take a few choice members that could be spared onto a Skrull vessel, sneak aboard the mothership, and take out the queen.  It would buy them time – and possibly even dissuade the Advani entirely – to get their house in order before mounting a combined force to stave off the latest annihilation threat.

The plan was simple: get on the ship, split up, have Xavier find the queen, kill said queen, either corrupt or destroy the mothership so the Advani momentum towards Earth was stalled or completely destroyed, and then get the hell out of there.  Easy, simple, and certainly within their capabilities as the leaders of their respective teams.

It had all gone according to plan except for the fact that Tony Stark is completely incapable of following instructions.  Stephen had been Tony’s shadow for protection in magical arts, and while they had gotten to the control room without any (major) issues, Tony had wanted to copy all of the Advani data on technology and capabilities, arguing that having that information could mean the difference between winning and losing should a new queen eventually be selected or found.  Stephen hadn’t really been able to disagree with that statement, and he’s not known for strictly sticking with plans either (especially when Tony is involved), so he had stood guard with multiple clones, making sure they wouldn’t get ambushed by any Advani.

Stephen’s in love with the idiot, even if he’ll never admit it to Tony himself, but sometimes he wants to _strangle_ him, and not in a fun way.

When the queen had been killed, the other Illuminati members had already returned to the rendezvous point, whereas what seemed like the entire hundred thousand Advani on the mothership had gone beelining to the control room so they could flee back to their home world and queen-mother.  Stephen and Tony probably could’ve taken on a lot of them had they not been in a cramped, close-quarters environment, but they _had_ been, and considering they didn’t want to accidentally blow a hole in the ship and get sucked into space, they hadn’t been able to fight anywhere near full strength.

Two touches with two anaesthesia-laced tentacles later, they’re here, wherever ‘here’ is (and Stephen has an idea that he doesn’t like _at all_ ).  It’s a cavernous place, dimly lit and echoing every sound, and Stephen can’t see any exits from where he’s at.  Then again, the light is so meagre that any doorway would be hidden in the shadows, and it doesn’t help that Stephen’s vision is starting to go grey at the edges.  Stephen and Tony are the only people in the room, but there is a very large Advani – a queen, which gives credence to the possibility that they’ve been unconscious long enough to return to the Advani home planet in Pegasus – that takes up a large portion of said room.

The queen itself has them both suspended with multitudes of strong tentacles.  There’s no face on the queen; instead, there’s just an undulating mass of flesh below them, probably the size of a giant squid on steroids, decorated with irregular black splotches not unlike a Rorschach blob.  The tentacles themselves are a deep purplish-red with vein-like streaks and suckers so green they’re almost black, stretching out by the dozens from the main body.  Most of them are supporting the queen’s body on the ground, rippling in tandem with its twins and the body, but there are many wrapping around Stephen and Tony or simply rolling and twitching in the air close to them.

Stephen clenches his hands once, feels that the usual pain is considerably muted from whatever chemicals are embedded in the fragrant, viscous slick that coats each tentacle, and makes a mental note to keep aware of his hands at all times.  If he forgets due to the almost-absent pain, he’ll be in agony when they’re finally free from the queen – the last thing he needs is to be blind with pain when they’re inevitably making their escape, and considering that he and Tony are naked, Stephen will need every edge he can get if he can’t find his Sling Ring.

Right now, he’s trying to concentrate on keeping his focus.  Stephen’s not familiar with this _particular_ type of alien, but he has enough experience with similar, distantly related species that his current bodily reactions are not a surprise.  The tentacles wrapped around his lower legs, arms, neck, and torso are sucking steadily at his skin, feeding the drugged slick into his skin while stimulating his nerves, and it’s making him fuzzy with endorphins, relaxants, and aphrodisiacs.  Every nerve and cell in his body feels electrified but floaty, and each pull of those suckers is like a direct line of arousal to his prick; he is furious at their current predicament, and peeved that they got caught in the first place, but he still wants to groan loudly and push his hips outwards in some blasted attempt to get _some_ kind of friction against his aching erection.

“So what’s the deal, Dumbledore?” asks Tony, his voice a bit thin but still convincingly steady.  Stephen’s been avoiding looking at Tony, both out of self-preservation towards his inconvenient attraction as well as for respect’s sake, but he can’t help but glance at him.  Tony doesn’t look like he’s fairing any better than Stephen is – his muscular but lean, gloriously naked body is covered in a sheen of sweat and slick, the golden-brown stretch of his skin only highlighted by the dark tentacles that cover his own legs, torso, and arms.  His prick is hard and thick, leaking a constant trail of precome, and one of the smaller tentacles is wrapped around it, the suckers slowly drinking it up as it climbs from the base of him upwards.  It’s a hell of a view, close enough in front of him for Stephen to touch if his arms were free, and Stephen looks away while he still can; as much as he’s fantasised about seeing Tony mindless with pleasure, especially _this close_ , this isn’t exactly what he’d had in mind.  Or at all.  _Ever_.

“It’s the queen-mother, I’d guess,” Stephen explains, fighting to keep his own voice steady as the tentacle on his chest manoeuvres its way to cover his nipples, the vibrating suction against the hardened nubs maddening.  He swallows, glares at a far shadowed corner of the room, tries to ignore Tony’s sharp breaths and fidgeting from in front of him, and grits his teeth yet again as he continues tightly, “In this species and similar ones, the queen sucks the seed from its underlings and uses it to fertilise eggs that it carries.  It’s highly efficient – they differ in the way that squids or octopi reproduce on Earth, as the queen-mother will nurture the offspring until they are of a surviving age and also does not die after reproducing, as the hive mind is connected to their birth queen, who’s connected to its own queen-mother.  When they encounter new species, humanoid or not, they generally will take a few members of each biological sex to be fed on by the queen-mother; when they do this, the queen-mother can assimilate features or mental traits and knowledge from that species and disseminate it to the entire hive-mind, which enables them to operate more proficiently with or against that species.  In addition, if the species are compatible enough, the queen-mother can actively embed the newer DNA into its own DNA and create superior offspring for all future reproduction.  That won’t be the case here, as we aren’t compatible, but—”

At the last word, Stephen has to stop when a tentacle wraps around his own prick, a choked groan forcing its way through his throat.  The tentacle jerks, causing Stephen to shudder helplessly, and then the suckers attach to Stephen’s prick and balls, drinking up Stephen’s own precome just like they’re doing to Tony.  He can feel the one on his neck tighten, vibrating with pleasure as the suckers on his pulse points pull harder, and he lets out another weak groan that echoes in the cavernous room.  Each suck on his skin, each slide and shiver of the tentacles around him, is delicious and mind-numbing, the chemical-laden fluid mixing with sweat and seeping into his pores.

Almost hastily, Stephen rambles through the fog of helpless arousal, “Queens are rare – the ratio is probably around ten thousand-to-one, considering the numbers on the mothership – and the queen-mother is essentially the originator of the species, each queen hived to the queen-mother, and each grunt hived to both their queen and queen-mother.  It’s how they stay somewhat lucid when their queen is killed; they can still link to the queen-mother on their home planet and return to give updates and re-evaluate their options.  Technically speaking, you could kill their queen-mother and the entire species will be cut off, and it’s happened with other hive minds in other species, but you have to kill every queen to eliminate the entire species, as each queen will become the queen-mother and obtain autonomy, which results in a huge expansion of separated territory.  That can be dangerous, if they decide to work together to obtain a goal like exterminating Earth, but it usually leads to civil war until one queen is the final queen-mother.  Anyway, if you kill all of the queens in a species, the grunts will pretty much become automatons, incapable of independent thought and easy to kill off, an—”

He’s interrupted by Tony letting out the most _lewd_ groan, and despite looking as far away as he’s able with the tentacles keeping him in place, Stephen can see Tony buck and writhe from the corner of his eye.  He can’t help but look over to see the full picture, and Stephen’s mouth goes bone-dry at the sight: Tony’s wrapped a little more noticeably than Stephen is, mostly because of their size difference, but the tentacles are much more active with him than they are Stephen and it’s certainly doing a number on Tony.

He’s tilted forward and stretched out spread-eagle, arms and legs wrapped in sucking vines of purplish red, and his hands and toes are curling with pleasure.  His flushed face is slack, half-lidded eyes dark and wild, and his mouth is open, gasping in oxygen like a man starved for it.  There’s one tentacle wrapped around his chest, pulling and sucking on his nipples with clear but gentle jerks, Stephen privy to the sight of those hard nubs being lightly tugged away from his body in a quick rhythm.  Another is wrapped around his taut, muscular, heaving stomach, suckers attached to the divots of his abdominals and the pressure points in his hips, and Stephen can only imagine that his lower back is being given the same treatment.  Then there’s yet another wrapped around his red prick, one sucker covering his slit and drinking in his precome while the others along that tentacle suck at every vein that’s popping out; the base of it is curled around Tony’s heavy balls, sucking and pulling at the tender, sensitive flesh, and the very tip of the tentacle is tracing a teasing line around every centimetre of prick and balls not already covered by suckers.

The last tentacle breaks Stephen’s complete composure, and even though he’s abjectly horrified that this is happening, he can’t help the groan that tears itself out of his dry throat.

It’s coming from underneath Tony and it’s much larger than the others, a big and bulging thing that’s glistening in its drugged slick.  Even though Tony’s prick and balls cover the actual sight, there’s no mistake as to what it’s doing – the tentacle is pushing up, then down, then up again, thrusting into Tony’s shuddering body, fucking and twisting into him in powerful drives that make his entire body jolt.

Tony’s glazed eyes – _aroused-shocked-confused-beautiful_ – snap to Stephen’s and he moans breathlessly, “Oh God, oh _God_...”

“Tony, it’s okay,” Stephen says, even as he feels a new tentacle slide up his own leg, caress his arse, and start tracing the crease.  He tilts slightly forward while the tentacles around his legs spread him open, and _fuck_ , but he wants it inside him, wants to feel that thing shoved inside his body, abusing his insides and suckling his prostate.  He knows it’s the drugs talking, that if he was sound of mind without various chemicals clouding his choices, he’d refuse being fucked by this creature because he hasn’t given informed consent, but it doesn’t matter, he _needs_ it.  “Just keep breathing, it’s perfectly normal to respond physically, it’ll be over soon, I’m so sorry.”

Tony’s straining against the tentacles, hard enough for the skin around them to bleach white, and he stretches forward as far as he can, face flushed and skin glistening.  Their close proximity means that Stephen can feel Tony’s sharp breaths against his skin, smell the sweat and slick he’s coated with, see every thick eyelash surrounding those dark eyes, and _oh_ does he want this man, feel his body and push his tongue into his warm, wet mouth.  As the tentacle behind Stephen begins pushing into him in slowly, sliding against his insides and prostate with a spark of shivery sensation, Stephen lets out his own weak moan and gives in, dropping his chin and stretching that last bit of distance between them so he can press his damp forehead against Tony’s own.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tony chokes out, jerking from another forceful thrust, and then Tony lifts his head so he can slant his lips against Stephen’s like a brand.

The sound that rips from Stephen’s throat is inhuman and he surges forward, prick aching and balls throbbing, and he feels the tentacles surrounding him quiver, the vibration maddening and delicious against his sensitive body.  Distantly, he knows that it’s because his prick is positively dripping now, right into the sucker over his slit, and the queen-mother seems to realise that Stephen (and possibly Tony himself) is responding from the human contact because they’re pushed closer together.  There’s some slack in his arms now, and he immediately lifts them so he can bury his fingers in Tony’s hair, pushing them closer, ever closer, _fuck_ , he’s going to come from this, from that thick tentacle fucking into him and the others restraining his body and neck, from the sensation of _finally_ tasting those lips and that tongue that he’s been dreaming about for _years_.

“Please, shit, _please_ ,” Tony whines between kisses, panting in Stephen’s mouth when they part for breath, but they swell against each other over and over again, tongues winding and pulling against their restraints, bodies jolting and heaving against each other as their arses are fucked and their pricks are milked, and Stephen’s _so close_ , every atom in his body yearning for release, and then Tony drawls in a sharp inhale and _sobs_ out his exhale, body arching so tightly he looks like he could shatter from a breeze, eyes rolling back into his head and tears falling down his cheeks, his expression so pained and yet _grateful_ as he comes almost violently.

Stephen entire body utterly _throbs_ at the sight, and he buries his face into Tony’s damp shoulder so he can muffle his scream as he follows right behind.

—

Stephen doesn’t remember losing consciousness.

He does remember waking up to the arousal and need soaring through his bloodstream, his already-rigid prick being suckled and pulled and his arse filled so perfectly, Tony curled against him as fucks himself back onto the tentacle while tonguing at Stephen’s throat, moaning and crying out weakly.  He remembers Tony sinking his teeth into Stephen’s neck when he comes for the second time, practically screaming from the force of it, and he remembers following once again before everything goes black for the second time.

They come and come and _come_ , each time more painful than the last, and Stephen’s not sure how long they’ve been suspended here, being milked and fucked as Tony’s exhausted-but-straining body surges and shivers against him.  Both of them are dehydrated and starving but unable to free themselves of the wretched cycle of _arousal-need-unconsciousness_ , but eventually Tony’s lowered to the ground, likely because he’s coming dry; he lies boneless on the ground, just within sight, and barely breathes from the strain the marathon wreaked on his body.  Stephen manages twice more, his younger body more capable of withstanding the constant sex and his balls fuller with age, before he too is lowered, every muscle and tendon in his body screaming in agony and exhaustion, completely drained and unbelievably sore and raw.

He literally crawls the hundred painful metres to Tony’s side and collapses against Tony’s warm, motionless body, comforted by the deep thud of his heart and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The next time he wakes, he’s in an infirmary aboard the Skrull ship, the only person beside Tony inside that room, and he glances over at Tony, who’s in the next bed over.  They stare at each other for a long, indeterminable moment, wary and hesitant, and then the most beautiful thing happens.

Tony smiles, a small and weak but genuine thing, and reaches out with his shaking left arm; Stephen nudges his own right arm from its bedding and stretches himself, their fingers tangling together over the space between them.

“Next time,” Tony says roughly, throat raw from screaming during his multiple orgasms, “we’re having dinner first, and there’s not going to be any sex aliens.  Just you, me, a bed, and your dick, got it?”

Stephen huffs out a laugh, squeezes his fingers, and replies in a similarly mangled voice, “It’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also found on [my tumblr](http://meshkol.tumblr.com/post/177750893074/okay-so-this-isnt-exactly-our-best-moment).


	8. Not-So-Innocent Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Thor big fans of talking about wild, imaginative sex.
> 
> Stephen takes it a step further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So [malinka](https://jayjay-graceless.tumblr.com/) sent me a shitpost. I really _did_ mean for it to be just a reply, but then it turned into this. I don't even know anymore.

Thor and Tony talk a lot about sex.

Tony, himself, has a lot of experience with it (obviously), and he’s an open book about the easy stuff: sex in all its forms, technology and engineering, how much he hates opera, linguistics and culture, cars and machines, international politi—actually, probably not that last one.  Anyway, he’s open about his experiences with sex, both good and bad, and it’s not a secret that he’s willing to share the raunchy bits just as much as how one time, he was with this girl who thought teeth _down there_ was a good idea, for some bizarre reason.

Thor, on the other hand, comes from a culture where sex is celebrated in all ways, which is a miraculous thing to Tony, who’s lived through the second sexual awakening and is highly cognisant of how far Earth still has to go before the planet can reach true equality between all manners of people.  Thor’s outlook on all things sex is refreshing and vast, because apparently Asgardians are complete freaks in the sack and have massive orgies with each other _and_ extra-terrestrial species on the regular.

So yeah, they talk a lot about sex, and it’s _fun_.  Tony’s not into Thor in the slightest (unlike the rest of the universal population, it seems like), and outside of the post-battle “Let us all express our joy and relief at a battle well fought with carnal pleasure, my comrades-in-arms!” that Thor spouts off when he’s particularly full of adrenaline, Thor’s not into Tony either – probably because he’s got a thing for the Big Green Machine, which tickles Tony to death, because Bruce is oblivious despite Thor’s nearly-constant flirting and outright _proclamations_ of his intent to take Bruce to bed.  Usually in public, which is even more hilarious.

Therefore, they are completely comfortable with getting into the most depraved conversations about all things sex, which is good for Tony because Thor has experienced a lot of things that Tony’s never even considered before.  Sure, they usually get hard talking about it, especially when it’s _good shit_ , and admittedly they’ve pulled one out in front of each other before, but Tony has found a close friend in Thor, where they can talk about these things and not be expected to act on it with each other because they’re both into men.  It’s actually pretty awesome, knowing that he can have friends as equally opportunistic with sexual partners and not have it really _mean_ anything.  He’s never really had that before with another queer guy, and it’s quite refreshing.

The conversations tend to veer off into Stephen-territory as of late, which is even more amusing.  Stephen’s a kinky motherfucker, which Tony adores beyond all conceivable measure, and he’s also not self-conscious about the things he likes and does, so Tony talks a lot about the shit they’ve gotten up to in the bedroom (or kitchen, or training room, or wherever really).  Thor’s always game to dissect it with him and offer suggestions for ‘feats’ that could take it to the next level – though usually said feats include god-like stamina and unimaginable bendiness, which Tony and Stephen either don’t have or can’t maintain for _hours_ like Thor suggests – and Tony can share some of his own crazy stories, some of which even Thor hasn’t done (which is surprising, considering how old Thor is).

Therefore, when Tony and Thor are talking about the number of pricks that can conceivably be stuffed in a human body and Stephen walks by with his nose in a dusty book, Tony has no qualms whatsoever about smacking Stephen’s pert arse and saying cheekily, “This bad boy can fit so many dicks inside of him.”

Stephen parries back distractedly without looking up from his book, “The record is five, though I had magical assistance.”

Tony gapes in utter shock – because _woah_ , and _when_ did _that_ happen? – while Thor’s laughter shakes the glass in the full windows of Tony’s personal sitting room.  “My good sorcerer, you are a proper slag!” Thor booms, face pink with his mirth and blue eyes watering from the force of his laughter.  “Tony, you are a lucky man!”

“Yeah...” Tony says weakly, vision greying out in the corners, and he’s pretty sure he’s never gotten so hard so fast, even whenever he was a teenager.  “I sure am,” he croaks, and then, without taking his eyes off his boyfriend, says breathlessly, “Okay, Point Break, time to go.  I have an _experiment_ I need to do.”

Thor laughs boisterously and stands up to leave, giving Tony a pat on the shoulder that feels like a boulder’s been dropped on him.  “I wish you luck, Tony!  See if you can push that up to seven and then you will beat Lady Morrow’s record, which is a mighty exploit that has never been achieved to my considerable knowledge!”

Tony all but shoves Thor out of the door and then yells out to Stephen, “Think you can get up to seven?  I have been issued a challenge!”

Stephen only laughs from the next room, and _fuck_ is it going to be an interesting night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Read on tumbr!](http://meshkol.tumblr.com/post/178060465669/tony-slaps-stephens-ass-while-thor-watches)


End file.
